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3. <L Saul Collection 

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nineteenth Century 
Englteb literature 



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BOOKS BY MR. STEDMAN 

VICTORIAN POETS. Revised and Enlarged Edition. 
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A VICTORIAN ANTHOLOGY. 1837-1895. Selec 
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HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
BOSTON AND NEW YORK 



A VICTORIAN ANTHOLOGY 



VICTORIAN ANTHOLOGY 

1837-1895 




HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN A CO. 



VICTORIAN ANTHOLOGY 



1837-1895 



SELECTIONS ILLUSTRATING THE EDITOR'S CRITICAL 

REVIEW OF BRITISH POETRY IN THE 

REIGN OF VICTORIA 



EDITED BY 

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 

AUTHOR OF "VICTORIAN POETS," BTC. 





BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

fee mitewibe prc#, Cambridge 



Copyright, 1895, 
BY EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 



All rights reserved. 



SIXTEENTH IMPRESSION 



The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass. , U. S. A. 
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co. 



To 



ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON 



INTRODUCTION 



WHILE this book is properly termed an Anthology, its scope is limited to the 
yield of one nation during a single reign. Its compiler's office is not that of one 
who ranges the whole field of English poetry, from the ballad period to our own 
time, thus having eight centuries from which to choose his songs and idyls, each 
" round and perfect as a star." This has been variously essayed ; once, at least, in 
such a manner as to render it unlikely that any new effort, for years to come, will 
better the result attained. 

On the other hand, the present work relates to the poetry of the English people, 
and of the English tongue, that knight peerless among languages, at this stage of 
their manifold development. I am fortunate in being able to make use of such 
resources for the purpose of gathering, in a single yet inclusive volume, a Victo 
rian garland fairly entitled to its name. The conditions not only permit but 
require me while choosing nothing that does not further the general plan to 
be somewhat less rigid and eclectic than if examining the full domain of English 
poesy. That plan is not to offer a collection of absolutely flawless poems, long since 
become classic and accepted as models ; but in fact to make a truthful exhibit of the 
course of song during the last sixty years, as shown by the poets of Great Britain 
in the best of their shorter productions. 

Otherwise, and as the title-page implies, this Anthology is designed to supplement 
my " Victorian Poets," by choice and typical examples of the work discussed in 
that review. These are given in unmutilated form, except that, with respect to 
a few extended narrative or dramatic pieces, I do not hesitate to make extracts 
which are somewhat complete in themselves ; it being difficult otherwise to repre 
sent certain names, and yet desirable that they shall be in some wise represented. 

At first I thought to follow a strictly chronological method: that is, to give 
authors succession in the order of their birth-dates ; but had not gone far before it 
was plain that such an arrangement conveyed no true idea of the poetic movement 



INTRODUCTION 



within the years involved. It was disastrously inconsistent with the course taken 
in the critical survey now familiar to readers of various editions since its orig 
inal issue in 1875 and extension in 1887. In that work the leading poets, and 
the various groups and " schools," are examined for the most part in the order of 
their coming into vogue. Some of the earlier-born published late in life, or other 
wise outlasted their juniors, and thus belong to the later rather than the opening 
divisions of the period. In the end, I conformed to the plan shown in the ensuing 
" Table of Contents." This, it will be perceived, is first set off into three divisions 
of the reign, and secondly into classes of poets, which in each class, finally, are 
quoted in order of their seniority. For page-reference, then, the reader will not 
depend upon the " Contents," but turn to the Indexes of Authors, First Lines, 
and Titles, at the end of the volume. 

It is an arbitrary thing, at the best, to classify poets, like song-birds, into genera 
and species ; nor is this attempted at all in my later division, which aims to pre 
sent them chronologically. Time itself, however, is a pretty logical curator, and at 
least decides the associations wherewith we invest the names of singers long gone 
by. Those so individual as to fall into no obvious alliance are called " distinctive," 
in the first and middle divisions at large. Song and hymn makers, dramatists, 
meditative poets, etc., are easily differentiated, and the formation of other groups 
corresponds with that outlined in " Victorian Poets." Upon the method thus 
adopted, and with friendly allowance for the personal equation, it seems to me 
that a conspectus of the last sixty years can be satisfactorily obtained. The shorter 
pieces named in my critical essays, as having distinction, are usually given here. 
While representing the poetic leaders most fully, I have not overlooked choice 
estrays, and I have been regardful of the minor yet significant drifts by which 
the tendencies of any literary or artistic generation frequently are discerned. In 
trying to select the best and most characteristic pieces, one sometimes finds, by 
a paradox, that an author when most characteristic is not always at his best. On 
the whole, and nearly always with respect to the elder poets whose work has under 
gone long sifting, poems well'known and favored deserve their repute ; and pref 
erence has not been given, merely for the sake of novelty, to inferior productions. 
Authors who were closely held to task in the critical volume are represented, in the 
Anthology, by their work least open to criticism. Finally, I believe that all those 
discussed in the former book, whether as objects of extended review or as minor 
contemporaries, are represented here, except a few that have failed to justify their 
promise or have produced little suited to such a collection. In addition, a showing 



INTRODUCTION xi 



is made of various poets hopefully come to light since the extension of my survey, 
in 1887. Others of equal merit, doubtless, are omitted, but with youth on their 
side they may well await the recognition of future editors. 

This Introduction goes beyond the scope of the usual Preface, in order that those 
rho (as students of English poetry) avail themselves of the Anthology, and who 
ive but a limited knowledge of the modern field, may readily understand the gen- 
and secondary divisions. To such readers a word concerning the period may 
of interest. 

In a letter to the editor, Canon Dixon speaks of " the Victorian Period " as " one 
of the longest in literary history ; perhaps the longest." With regard to an indi 
vidual, or to a reign, length of years is itself an aid to distinction, through its pro 
longation of a specific tendency or motive. The reign now closing has been one in 
which a kingdom has become an empire ; its power has broadened and its wealth 
and invention have increased as never before. In science, and in works of 
the imagination, despite the realistic stress of journalism, twenty years of the 
recent era outvie any fifty between the Protectorate and the beginning of our 
century. During every temporary lull we fear sterility, but one need not confine 
his retrospection to the blank from 1700 to 1795 to be assured that an all-round 
comparison with the past must be in our favor. While, then, it is but a hazardous 
thing to estimate one's own day, the essays to which the Anthology is a complement 
would not have been written but for a conviction that the time under review was 
destined to rank with the foremost times of England's intellectual activity, to be 
classed, it well might be, among the few culminating eras of European thought and 
art, as one to which even the title of " Age " should be applied. We speak of 
Queen Anne's time ; of the Georgian Period, and we have epochs within periods ; 
but we say the Age of Pericles, the Augustan Age, the Elizabethan Age, and it is 
not beyond conjecture that posterity may award the master epithet to the time of 
Carlyle and Froude, of Mill and Spencer and Darwin, of Dickens, Thackeray, and 
their successors, of Tennyson and Browning, and thus not only for its wonders 
of power, science, invention, but for an imaginative fertility unequalled since " the 
spacious days " of the Virgin Queen. The years of her modern successor, whose 
larger sway betokens such an evolution, have been so prolonged, and so beneficent 
under the continuous wisdom of her statesmen, that the present reign may find no 
historic equal in centuries to come. An instinctive recognition of this seems now to 
prevail. Even the adjective " Victorian " was unfamiliar, if it had been employed 
at all, when I used it in the title of a magazine essay (the germ of my subsequent 



xii INTRODUCTION 



volume) published in January, 1873. It is now as well in use as " Elizabethan " or 
" Georgian," and advisedly, for the cycle bearing the name has so rounded upon it 
self that an estimate of its characteristic portion can be made ab extra ; all the 
more, because in these latter days " the thoughts of men " are not only " widened," 
but hastened toward just conclusions, as if in geometrical progression. What, then, 
my early essays found an ample ground for study, the present compilation seeks to 
illustrate, and I trust that, although restricted to brief exemplifications, it will some 
what justify this preliminary claim. 

In the following pages, then, the period is divided into, first, the early years of 
the reign ; second, the Victorian epoch proper ; third, the present time. A survey of 
the opening division brings out an interesting fact. Of the poets cited as prominent 
after 1835 and until the death of Wordsworth, scarcely one shows any trace of the 
artistic and speculative qualities which are essentially Victorian. Well-informed 
readers may be surprised to find so many antedating the influence of Tennyson, 
untouched by his captivating and for a long time dominating style. Their work is 
that of a transition era, holding over into the present reign. It was noted for its 
songs and sentiment. The feeling of Wordsworth is plain in its meditative verse ; yet 
to this time belong Bulwer, Macaulay, the " Blackwood " and " Bentley " coteries, 
" Barry Cornwall," and those " strayed Elizabethans," Darley and Beddoes. Mil- 
man, Talf ourd, Knowles, and others are not quoted, partly on account of their lack of 
quality, but chiefly because at their best they are late Georgian rather than early 
Victorian. Praed comes in as the pioneer of our society-verse ; Elliott as a bard of 
" the new day." In fact, the Reform Bill crisis evoked the humanitarian spirit, 
poetically at its height in the writings of Hood and Mrs. Browning. To include 
Wordsworth, the Queen's first laureate of her own appointment, farther than by a 
prelude on ** the passing of the elder bards " would be to rob the Georgian Period of 
the leader of one of its great poetic movements ; yet Wordsworth breathes through 
out our entire selection, wherever Nature is concerned, or philosophic thought, and 
not only in the contemplative verse, but in the composite, and never more strenu 
ously than in Palgrave and Arnold, of the middle division, and such a poet as Wat 
son, of the third. Landor, though the comrade of Southey, the foil of Byron, and 
the delight of Shelley, begins this volume, as he began its predecessor ; for Landor 
with his finish, his classical serenity, and his wonderful retention of the artistic fac 
ulty until his death a score of years after the Accession belonged to no era 
more than to our own, and we may almost say that in poetry he and Swinburne 
were of the same generation. 



INTRODUCTION xiil 



Two thirds of our space are naturally required for selections from the typical 
division. This is seen to begin with the appointment of Tennyson as laureate, since 
he scarcely had a following until about that date. In him we find, on the reflective 
side, a sense of Nature akin to Wordsworth's, and on the aesthetic, an artistic per 
fection foretokened by Keats, in other words, insight and taste united through 
his genius had their outcome in the composite idyllic school, supremely represen 
tative of the Victorian prime. Tennyson idealized the full advance of nineteenth 
century speculation, ethical and scientific, in the production of " In Memoriam," 
and to the end in such a poem as " Vastness." Possibly, also, it was out of his early 
mediaeval romanticism that the next most striking school arose with Rossetti and his 
fellow Pre-Raphaelites who are grouped as Poets of the Renaissance : their revival in 
cluding both Greek and Gothic modes and motives, as finally combined in the mas- 
terwork of Swinburne. The third and equal force of the epoch is that of Browning, 
long holding his rugged ground alone, as afterward with half the world to stay him ; 
but, like other men of unique genius, not the founder of a school, his manner fail 
ing in weaker hands. In Arnold's composite verse the reflective prevails over the aes 
thetic. Besides these chiefs of the quarter-century are various " distinctive " poets, 
as in the earlier division, each belonging to no general group. Then we have the 
songsters, for whom all of us confess a kindly feeling ; the balladists withal, and the 
dramatists, such as they are ; also the makers of lighter verse, and other lyrists 
of a modest station, often yielding something that lends a special grace to an 
Anthology. 

The closing era is of the recent poets of Great Britain, and begins very clearly 
about twenty years ago. At that date, the direct influences of Tennyson, Brown 
ing, Swinburne, and Rossetti began to appear less obviously, or were blended, where 
apparent, in the verse of a younger generation. The new lyrists had motives of 
their own, and here and there a new note. There was a lighter touch, a daintiness 
of wit and esprit, a revival of early minstrel "forms," and every token of a 
blithe and courtly Ecole Interme*diaire : evidence, at least, of emancipation from 
the stress of the long dominant Victorian chord. The change has become decisive 
since the " Jubilee Year," to which my supplementary review was extended, and 
of late we have a distinctly lyrical, though minor song-burst, even if the mother 
country be not, as in its springtime of pleasant minstrelsy, " a nest of singing-birds." 
In the later ditties England's hawthorn-edged lanes and meadows come to mind, 
the skylark carols, and we have verse as pastoral as Mr. Abbey's drawings for 
Herrick and Goldsmith. This, to my view, if not very great, is more genuine and 



xiv INTRODUCTION 



hopeful than any further iteration of " French Forms," and the same may be occa. 
sionally said for those town-lyrics which strive to express certain garish, wandering 
phases of the London of to-day. Irish verse, which always has had quality, begins 
to take on art. But the strongest recent work is found in the ballads of a few men 
and women, and of these balladists, one born out of Great Britain is first without 3 
seeming effort. As for the drama (considering the whole reign), its significant 
poetry, beyond a few structures modelled after the antique, and those of Home, Tay= 
lor, and Swinburne, is found mainly in the peculiar and masterful work of Browning ; 
nevertheless, lyrical song indicates a dramatic inspiration, because it is so human, 
and if the novel did not afford a continuous exercise of the dramatic gift, I would 
look to see the drama, or verse with pronounced dramatic qualities, attend the rise 

1 of the next poetic school. If, on the other hand, there is to ensue a non-imagina 
tive era, a fallow interval, it will be neither strange nor much to be deplored after 

! the productive affluence of the reign now ending with the century. 

A selection from the minstrelsy of Great Britain's colonies fills out the scheme 
of the Anthology. The Australian yield is sufficiently meagre, but I have chosen 
what seems most local and characteristic. "Canada is well in the lists with a group 
of lyrists whose merit has made their names familiar to readers of our own 
periodicals, and who feel and healthfully express the sentiment, the atmosphere, of 
their northern land. I am sure that the space reserved for them in this volume 
will not seem ill-bestowed. One noteworthy trait of colonial poetry is the frequency 
with which it takes the ballad form. In a rude way this is seen in the literature 
of our own colonial period, and along our more recent frontier settlements. By 
some law akin to that which makes balladry repeated from mouth to mouth 
the natural song of primitive man, of the epic youth of a race or nation, so its form 
and spirit appear to characterize the verse of a people not primitive, though the 
colonial pioneers of life and literature in a new land. 

To a few exquisite but unnamed quatrains and lyrics by Landor, I have pre 
fixed the felicitous titles given to them by Mr. Aldrich in the little book " Cameos," 
of which he and I were the editors a score of years ago. From the early min 
strels a compiler's selections are not hard to make. The panel already has been 
struck by time itself, which declares that, even in the case of some uneven roisterer, 
one or two fortunate catches shall preserve his name. More embarrassment comes 
from the knowledge that lovers of such poets as Tennyson, who made no imperfect 
poem, and Browning, who wrote none that was meaningless, are slow to understand 
why certain pieces, for which an editor, doubtless, shares their own regard, are 



INTRODUCTION xv 



perforce omitted. To surmise, moreover, which is the one lasting note of a new voice 
or which of all the younger band is to win renown, this is the labor and the work, 
seeing that as to finish they are all sensitive enough, except now and then one who 
invites attention by contempt for it. Nothing is more evident than the good crafts 
manship of latter-day English and American verse-makers, a matter of course, 
after the object-lessons given by their immediate forbears. All in all, the antholo 
gist must rest his cause upon its good intention. In speaking of those who hunt 
up and reprint the faulty work of authors, " the imperfect thing or thought " 
which in mature years they have tried to suppress, Palgrave justly says in his 
Pro Mortuis," 

" Nor has the dead worse foe than he 

Who rakes these sweepings of the artist's room, 

And piles them on his tomb." 

Conversely, one perhaps earns some right to count himself the artist's friend, 
whose endeavor is to discover and preserve, from the once cherished treasures of 
even a humble fellow of the craft, at least " one gem of song, defying age." 

Compact Biographical Notes, upon all the poets represented, follow the main 
text. Where authorities conflict, and usually, also, in the cases of recent authors, 
effort has been made to secure the desired information at first hand. For this, 
and for the general result, my hearty thanks are due to the skill and patience of 
Miss Vernetta E. Colemaiu who has prepared the greater portion of the Notes. 
The faithfulness of the text at large has been enhanced by the cooperation of the 
Riverside Press, and this is not the first time when I have been grateful to its 
Corrector and his assistants for really critical attention given to a work passing 
through their hands. 

E. C. S. 

NEW YORK, September, 1895. 



NOTE 

FOR the text of the selections in this Anthology, transcripts have been made, as far as possible, 
from the books of the respective authors, many of which volumes are upon the editor's shelves. 
Much dependence, however, has been placed on the Astor, Mercantile, Columbia College, and Soci 
ety Libraries, and the Library of the Y. W. C. Association. To the librarians of these institutions 
the editor's acknowledgments are rendered for courteous assistance. His thanks are due, also, to 
Mr. R. H. Stoddard, Mr. R. W. Gilder, Prof. Brander Matthews, and Prof. F. D. Sherman, of 
New York, Mr. Harrison S. Morris, of Philadelphia, Mr. G. H. Ellwanger, of Rochester, and Prof. 
C. G. D. Roberts, late of Windsor, N. S., for giving him the use of their collections, and to a few 
other friends for various services. With respect to attractive single poems, and to authors whose 
original editions could not be obtained, he has found the eight volumes of Mr. Miles's "The 
Poets and the Poetry of the Century " welcome aids to his research. Use also has been made of 
Mr. Sharp's "Canterbury Poets" series, Prof. Sladen's " Australian Poets," Mr. Schuyler-Light- 
hall's " Songs of the Great Dominion," and of several minor collections of Scottish, Irish, and 
English-dialect verse. 

His thanks are rendered to many living British poets, who now, under the amended copyright 
law, are so closely affiliated with us, for the privilege cheerfully given of taking his own selections 
from their works. This usufruct has been generously confirmed by the publishers issuing their 
American editions. The editor desires to express his grateful obligations to Messrs. Mac- 
millan & Co. and Messrs. Longmans, Green & Co., of London and New York ; to Messrs. Charles 
Scribner's Sons, Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Co., Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons, and the Frederick A. 
Stokes Company, of New York ; to Messrs. Roberts Brothers and Messrs. Copeland & Day, of 
Boston ; and to Messrs. Stone & Kimball and Messrs. Way & Williams, of Chicago. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



I. EARLY YEARS OF THE REIGN 

(TRANSITION PERIOD) 
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



(iMaltcr &aage Lanflor 

? ^ i 


AGE 


OVERTURE FROM "THRASYMEDES AND 




EUNOE" 


3 


THE HAMADRYAD . .' 


3 


THE DEATH OF ARTEMIDORA . 


7 


FROM "MYRTIS" 


7 




8 




8 




8 


AN INVOCATION . . . ~. 


8 


FROM "GEBIR" 


8 


To YOUTH ... .*,->- .- ., 


9 


To AGE . , :.' <i,- * . 


10 


ROSE AYLMER 


10 


ROSE AYLMER'S HAIR, GIVEN BY HER 




SISTER 


10 


CHILD OF A DAY ... . ~ :~' r : , ; 


10 


FIESOLAN IDYL 


10 


FAREWELL TO ITALY . .' 


11 


THE MAID'S LAMENT .... 


11 


MARGARET . . , , . v 


12 




12 


PLAYS . . . . . 


12 


THERE FALLS WITH EVERY WEDDING 




CHIME ; . * . i . 


12 


SHAKESPEARE AND MILTON . 


12 


MACAULAY 


12 


ROBERT BROWNING .... 


13 


ON THE DEATH OF M. D'OssoiJ AND HIS 




WIFE MARGARET FULLER 


13 




13 




13 




13 


THE TEST . l .... 


13 


IN AFTER TIME . 


14 


A PROPHECY 


14 


COWSLIPS 


14 


WRINKLES . . . . i 


14 


ADVICE . . . < i 


14 




14 



TIME TO BE WISE . 
THE ONE WHITE HAIR . 
ON HIMSELF .... 
ON LUCRETIA BORGIA'S HAIR 
PERSISTENCE . % . ' 
MAN ..... *.!-. 

To SLEEP 

ON LIVING TOO LONG 

A THOUGHT .... 

HEARTSEASE 

VERSES WHY BURNT . . .* 

DEATH UN DREADED . 

MEMORY . . . V 

FOR AN EPITAPH AT FIESOLE 



THE FLOWER OF BEAUTY ... 17 

SUMMER WINDS ..... 17 
SONGS FROM "SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY 
QUEEN" 

1. Chorus of Spirits . . . . 17 

2. Morning-Song ..... 17 

3. Nephon's Song . l : ;' ' ^ ' . 18 

4. Romanzo to Sylvia . . . .18 



$rpan Waller 

(" BARRY CORNWALL M ) 

THE SEA . 

THE HUNTER'S SONG .. 
THE POET'S SONG TO His WIFE 
THE STORMY PETREL .. 
PEACE! WHAT DO TEARS AVAIL? 
LIFE ..... - -. 
THE BLOOD HORSE . , . . 
SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL . . 
GOLDEN-TRESSED ADELAIDE . 
A POET'S THOUGHT ' 
A PETITION TO TIME 



19 
19 
20 
20 
20 
20 
21 

21 
22 
22 



XV111 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



FROM "JOSEPH AND His BRETHREN 



J)cnrj> Caplor 

FROM " PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE ". . 
FROM "EDWIN THE FAIR" ... 
A CHARACTERIZATION LINES ON THE 
HON. EDWARD VILLIERS ... 
ARETINA'S SONG ..... 



22 



THE HERO . . 27 



lorfc ;ff acattlap 

(THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY) 
THE BATTLE OF NASEBY . 
EPITAPH ON A JACOBITE 
IVRY 



EitfjarU J)enffi0t INrne 

FROM "ORION: AN EPIC POEM" . 

GENIUS 

PELTERS OF PYRAMIDS 
SOLITUDE AND THE LILY 

THE SLAVE 

THE PLOUGH 



FROM "TORRISMOND ! 
DREAM-PEDLARY . 



30 
35 
35 
36 
36 
36 



BALLAD OF HUMAN LIFE . ... 38 
SONGS FROM " DEATH'S JEST-BOOK " 

1. To Sea, to Sea ! . . . . 38 

2. Dirge ...... 38 

3. Athulf 's Death Song ... 38 

4. Second Dirge ..... 39 
SONGS FROM "THE BRIDES' TRAGEDY" 

1. Hesperus sings .... 39 

2. Love goes a-hawking . . .39 



Eobert 

THE SONG OF THE WESTERN MEN 
MAWGAN OF MELHUACH . . 
FEATHERSTONE'S DOOM ... 
"PATER VESTER PASCIT ILLA" . 
THE SILENT TOWER OF BOTTREAU 
To ALFRED TENNYSON . . . 



40 
40 
40 
40 
41 
41 



iptton 

(EDWARD LYTTON BULWER) 

THE CARDINAL'S SOLILOQUY FROM 
"RICHELIEU" ...... 42 

WHEN STARS ARE IN THE QUIET SKIES 43 

Militant (KUmontifit0ttnc Slptottn 

THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE . . 44 
MASSACRE OF THE MACPHERSON . 46 



POETS OF QUALITY 



(ZTbomac iotoe Jhac0tft 

THE MEN OF GOTHAM . . . .47 
THE WAR-SONG OF DINAS VAWR . 47 
MARGARET LOVE PEACOCK ... 47 



WUntjjrop JHacfetoortI) JJraeK 

THE VICAR 

THE NEWLY-WEDDED . 



|)artlep 



THEOCRITUS 



48 



49 



THE ROISTERERS 



Harris 

("THOMAS INGOLDSBT") 

THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS . . . 

MR. BARNEY MAGUIRE'S ACCOUNT OF 

THE CORONATION .... 



OTUItam 

THE IRISHMAN AND THE LADY 
THE SOLDIER-BOY 

francid JHa&onp 

("FATHER PROUT") 
THE SHANDON BELLS .. 



54 
55 



55 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



xix 



MEDm 
Gffltlliam >ttmep TOatittr 

DEATH'S ALCHEMY .... 

^artlep ColeriUffe 


ITF 
66 

56 
56 
57 
57 
57 
57 
57 
58 

58 
58 

58 
59 
59 
59 
59 

60 
60 

61 
61 

62 

62 

63 
64 


^E POETS 
Cfoomag filler 

THE OLD BARON 


64 
66 

65 
66 

66 
67 

67 
67 

67 
68 

68 
69 

tilt 

m 

69 
70 
70 
70 

70 
71 
71 
72 

72 


Jobn, lorU pamner 

THE PINE WOODS 


THE BIKTH OF SPEECH .... 
WHITHER? . . . 


Lortt ftotttrbton 

(RICHARD MONCKTON MILNKS) 

AN ENVOY TO AN AMERICAN LADY 
THE BROOK-SIDE . . *** , . 

JFrancee Slnne feemble 

THE BLACK WALL-FLOWER . 
FAITH 

l)enrp atlforU 


To SHAKESPEARE 






"MULTUM DILEXIT" . . . 

&nna Jameson 

TAKE ME, MOTHER EARTH . 7; .y ,, 

Cbatmcp l)are CotoncIjenU 

THY JOY IN SORROW ., ,y r > . 

Jobn Ipcnrp JQetoman 

THE SIGN or THE CROSS .... 




Jo^n jlttfort 

THE ROMAN LEGIONS .... 

artlwr Ibenrp ^allam 

WRITTEN IN EDINBURGH 

ftubrep C^omas 2)e Sere 

AN EPICUREAN'S EPITAPH 
FLOWERS I WOULD BRING . 




THE PILLAR OF THE CLOUD 


&ara Colerftge 

FROM " PHANTASMION " 

Charles i!.U)tte()eafc 


Jalw >terltnff 

SHAKESPEARE 
Louis XV 
To A CHILD 

JJane SUelsb Carlple 

To A SWALLOW BUILDING UNDER OUB 






THE QUEEN'S VESPERS . . . 




(L bomacf ^urbiU^f 






Rtc&arto Cljenetoij: (ZTrcntb 

AFTER THE BATTLE . ~. 
SONNET 




ffiliUiam l)enrp (L51l)itttortb 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



ENGLISH SONG WRITERS 

C&arles Stoain 



CHAMPAGNE ROSE . . . . 

SSUlItam potoitt 

THE DEPARTURE OF THE SWALLOW 



72 



73 



SHE WORE A WREATH OF ROSES . 73 
OH! WHERE DO FAIRIES HIDE THEIR 
HEADS ? . 73 



JHarp (tatoitt 



THE SEA FOWLER . 
CORNFIELDS 



I THINK ON THEE 



75 



TRIPPING DOWN THE FIELD-PATH . 76 

TAKE THE WORLD AS IT is . . . 76 

LIFE 76 

THE ROSE THOU GAV'ST ... 77 

'TWAS JUST BEFORE THE HAY WAS 
MOWN ... .77 



Coofc 



THE QUIET EYE 
THE SEA-CHILD . 



Mlliatn 



Bennett 



BABY MAY 78 

BE MINE, AND I WILL GIVE THY NAME 79 
A CHRISTMAS SONG 79 



SONGS AND BALLADRY OF SCOTLAND 



MY AIN WIFE 



Carlple 



THE SOWER'S SONG 

ADIEU 

Kobert 0ilfillan 

'Tis SAIR TO DREAM 
THE EXILE'S SONG 



JHoir 



CASA'S DIRGE . 

William 

THE MITHERLESS BAIRN . 



79 



81 



81 



82 



THE SWALLOW 



iSallantine 



MUCKLE-MOU'D MEG . 

Stuart 



MY BATH 

THE EMIGRANT LASSIE 

THE WORKING MAN'S SONG 

SSEUliam Jfttller 

WILLIE WINKIE . 



C[jarle0 Jladiap 



TELL ME, YE WINGED WINDS 
EARL NORMAN AND JOHN TRUMAN 
WHAT MIGHT BE DONE . 



83 



84 

85 



IRISH MINSTRELSY 
INCLUDING THE POETS OF YOUNG IRELAND 
Samuel Lotoer 



RORY O'MORE; OR, GOOD OMENS . 
WIDOW MACHREE . 



SOGGARTH AROON 



90 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



XX) 



(Sriffin 






A PLACE IN THY MEMORY 
NOCTURNE 



James Clarence 



90 
91 



in 



DARK ROSALEEN ........ , 

SOUL AND COUNTRY 1)2 

J)eien >elina, iatjp SDufferin 

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT . 93 

Caroline (Eli^afactl) &ara& Borton 

(LADY STIELING-MAXWELL) 
WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHER . 93 

THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE . . 94 
LOVE Nor , . 94 



Jrancis (Mailer 



KITTY NEIL . . . " 
A SPINNING-WHEEL SONG 



Samuel J~ crtrttcon 
THE FAIRY THORN ... 

VL bonus lOsfaorne u?al)tc 

THE SACK OF BALTIMORE .. 
THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE .. 
THE WELCOME , 



96 



Cbarles <9aban Ouffp 

THE IRISH RAPPAREES .... 100 

3Dems JFlorence fHatCartj)? 

BLESS THE DEAR OLD VERDANT LAND 100 
THE IRISH WOLF-HOUND . . .101 



4Sartj)olometo totaling; 

THE REVEL 



THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD 



101 



102 



Cjjomaa 

THE CELTIC CROSS ..... 103 
THE IRISH WIFE . . . . . 103 
THE EXILE'S DEVOTION ... .104 



jFranceBca ^peran^a, Lafcp 
(MtlUc 

(" SPBRANZA ") 
THE VOICE OF THE POOB .. 



Cba Ur UP 



TlPPERARY . 



CUen ;fflarp Patrick 

WERE I BUT HIS OWN WIFE 



104 



105 



. 10G 



"THE OATEN FLUTE" 



-Banus 

(DORSIT) 



WOONE SMILE MWORE 
BLACKMWORE MAIDENS 
THE HEARE . -. 
THE CASTLE RUINS . 



106 
107 
107 
108 



eutotn 

(LANCASHIRE) 

THE DULE 's i' THIS BONNET o' MINE 109 
TH' SWEETHEART GATE . . . 109 
OWD PINDER . .'*'. . .110 

Samuel Lapcock 

(LAHCASHIBB) 
WELCOME, BONNY BRID! . . . 110 



xxii 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 
(HUMANITY FREE THOUGHT POLITICAL, SOCIAL, AND ARTISTIC REFORM) 



(Kiiene^er lltott 



ELEGY ON WILLIAM COBBETT 
A POET'S EPITAPH 
THE BUILDERS . 



William 

THE BARONS BOLD 
LIFE is LOVE 



fop 



Ill 
112 
112 



112 
113 



THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM . . 113 

FLOWERS 115 

FAIR INES 116 

THE DEATH-BED 116 

BALLAD 116 

LEAR 117 

BALLAD 117 

FROM "Miss KILMANSEGG AND HER 
PRECIOUS LEG" 

1. Her Death . . . . .117 

2. Her Moral . . . . .118 

RUTH 119 

THE WATER LADY .... 119 

ODE AUTUMN 119 

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT . . .120 
THE LAY OF THE LABORER . . . 121 
THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS . . . .122 
STANZAS 123 

33artf)olometo Simmons 

STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS 
HOOD 123 

garnet Jftartineatt 

ON, ON, FOREVER 125 

iaman ialandjarti 

NELL GWYNNE'S LOOKING-GLASS . 125 
HIDDEN JOYS 126 

(ZT&oma0 Watte 

THE NET-BRAIDERS . . . .126 
BIRTH AND DEATH . . 126 



<t&oma0 Cooper 

CHARTIST SONG . . ' 



127 



Jlotoer 

HYMN 127 

LOVE 127 

NEARER TO THEE . 127 



Barrett 33rotoninff 



THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN 
MY HEART AND I ... 
SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE 
A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT . 
FROM "CASA GUIDI WINDOWS" . 
A COURT LADY 
MOTHER AND POET . 
FROM "AURORA LEIGH" . 
THE SLEEP 



domett 



A GLEE FOR WINTER 

A CHRISTMAS HYMN 

FROM "A CHRISTMAS HYMN" 



&cott 



GLENKINDIE ..... 
YOUTH AND AGE .... 
PYGMALION ..... 
MY MOTHER ..... 
THE NORNS WATERING YGGDRASILL 
To THE DEAD ..... 
HERO-WORSHIP 



William 3fame0 iinton 



EVICTION 
PATIENCE 
OUR CAUSE 
HEART AND WILL 



128 
130 
131 
134 
134 
136 
137 
139 
142 



143 
143 
144 



144 
145 
146 
146 
146 
147 
147 



147 
147 
148 
148 



FROM "A THRENODY IN MEMORY OF 
ALBERT DARASZ" ..... 148 

LOVE AND YOUTH ..... 149 

Too LATE ....... 149 

WEEP NOT ! SIGH NOT ! . . . .149 

SPRING AND AUTUMN . . . .149 

LOVE'S BLINDNESS ..... 149 

THE SILENCED SINGER . . . .150 

EPICUREAN ..... 150 



Eobert Bicoll 

WE 'LL A' GO PU' THE HEATHER 



. 150 



TABLE OF CONTENTS xxiii 


BONNIE BESSIE LEE .... 


150 
151 

152 
152 

153 

153 
153 
153 
154 
154 

LHA 

158 

162 
163 

163 
164 

{ H 
168 

169 
169 

170 


ilarp 3lnn bans (Letoes) r 

("GEORGE ELIOT") 

"O MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR INVISIBLE 
SONGS FROM " THE SPANISH GYPSY " 
1. The Dark 


OSS 

" 155 

155 
. 155 

156 
156 


latben itfarUs o dltlUo Call 
THE PEOPLE'S PETITION 


2. Song of the Zi ncali . 

Crnest CJjarlcs Jones 

EARTH'S BURDENS .... 


C^arlec; cvflelUon 
THE POEM OF THE UNIVERSE . . . 

Cmilp 3Sronte 
SONG ' 


THE WRECK 


TRUST THOU THY LOVE 

Cfaene^er Jones 

SONG OF THE KINGS OF GOLD m*/ 
THE FACE . . , ; v v/ 


157 

. 157 
158 

164 
. 164 


THE OLD STOIC 
WARNING AND REPLY . . 

STANZAS . ", v" J ' ' '"' . 


HER LAST LINES 


THE I 
Philip James 33aile? 

FROM "FESTUS" ^ vviU'V. , f^ >', , 

SDora <0reentoell 

A SONG OF FAREWELL . 
To CHRISTINA ROSSETTI .... 

LIGHT . . . . . 


PSODISTS 
BABY . . 


SONG 


THE DESERTER FROM THE CAUSE 
CHRISTIE'S PORTRAIT . . . ,,. . -. 
His BANNER OVER ME . . 

.3leranUer ^mitl) 
FROM "A LIFE-DRAMA" 


165 
. 165 
166 

. 166 
168 
. 168 


WORLD AND SOUL 


To - - 


EARL 1 ? 
James jfiontpmerp 

AT HOME IN HEAVEN .... 

Charlotte (Elliott 

JUST AS I AM 


YMNODY 
BURIAL HYMN . . . , . 


. 170 


RIDE ON IN MAJESTY . 

John feeble 

WHO RUNS MAY READ . <':-!j-:,. , ' 

SEED TIME HYMN . '. .'*'. 
HOLY MATRIMONY .... 

S>ir John 33otunnj 

FROM THE RECESSES . . . . 
WHAT OF THB NIGHT? 


171 

. 171 
172 
.172 



172 
. 173 


LET ME BE WITH THEE 

PRAYER TO THE TRINITY .... 

I)enri> hart jHtlman 
HYMN FOR THE SIXTEENTH SUNDAY 



XXIV 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



|)enrp jFrancia ipte 


&tt&ut -pcitrbpn i&tanlep 




ABIDE WITH ME . . . 
"Lo, WE HAVE LEFT ALL" . 
THE SECRET PLACE .... 


173 TEACH us TO DIE 
174 

C&ttetopljer Betoman J)ail 


180 


Samuel SSiilberfotce 


MY TIMES ARE IN THY HAND 


180 


JUST FOR TO-DAY 
GIVING TO GOD 


&nne Bronte 

A PRAYER 


181 


175 


ftorattug 330nat 


O LORD, THY WING OUTSPREAD . 


181 


LOST BUT FOUND 
THE VOICE FROM GALILEE . 
THY WAY, NOT MINE .... 
ABIDE WITH Us 
THE MASTER'S TOUCH .... 
A LITTLE WHILE 


175 

176 Cecil jFrancea &lej;an&er 

^na THERE is A GREEN HILL . 
lib 

177 

177 (Eli^abetl) Cecilia Ciep&ane 


182 


3T0JW Samuel 38etolep Jftonsell 


THE LOST SHEEP 

177 l&afcine ^Sarinff'-(!50ttHi 

CHILD'S EVENING HYMN . . . . 


182 
183 


frefcericfc OTilliam faier 


THE WILL OF GOD .... 
PARADISE 


Jtanceg EiUlep ^aberffal 
i/y 

179 I GAVE MY LIFE FOR THEE 


183 


THE RIGHT MUST WIN .... 


II. THE VICTORIAN EPOCH 


(PERIOD OF TENNYSON, ARNOLD, 


BROWNING, ROSSETTI, AND SWINBURNE) 




COMPOSITE 


IDYLLIC SCHOOL 




jFre&erufe Cennpgon 

THIRTY-FIRST OF MAY .... 
THE BLACKBIRD 


THE LATTICE AT SUNRISE 


192 
192 
193 
193 
193 
193 

194 
194 
196 
197 


187 ORION 

TO THE GrOSSAMER-LlGHT .... 

189 LETTY'S GLOBE 
HER FIRST-BORN 

191 SUfrefc, 3LorU Cennpaon 

191 THE DESERTED HOUSE 
191 THE LOTOS-CATERS 


FROM "NIOBE" 

C&arlea Cennpson Cttmet 

THE LION'S SKELETON .... 
THE VACANT CAGE 




THE BUOY-BELL 
THE FOREST GLADE . 


192 ULYSSES 


192 SIR GALAHAD 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



XXV 



SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINE 
VERE 

" BREAK, BREAK, BREAK " 
SONGS FROM "THE PRINCESS." 

As thro' the Land .... 
Sweet and Low .... 

Bugle Songl 

Tears, Idle Tears 
Thy Voice is heard 
Ask Me no more 

ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE 
WELUNGTON .... 

IE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRI 
GADE ...... 

NORTHERN FARMER (Old Style) 
THE DAISY .... V 

THE FLOWER . 

)ME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD . 
SHELL (from " Maud ") 
PASSING OF ARTHUR (from 
Idylls of the King ") . . *. 

IZPAH 

>WER IN THE CRANNIED WALL 
IG IN " THE FORESTERS " . % 

VASTNESS . . . .i^^i! *: ,-: 
THE SILENT VOICES . . . i/rjri 
THE BAR 

(Earl of 3Seacon0fcltt 

(BENJAMIN D'!SRAELI) 
'ELLINGTON . .,_, . 



198 
198 

199 
199 
199 
199 
200 
200 

200 

203 
204 
205 
206 
207 
208 

208 
209 
211 
211 
211 
212 
212 



(Tbomao Meattoooto 

O WIND OF THE MOUNTAIN ! 
IN THE GOLDEN MORNING OF THE 
WORLD 



A LECTURE-ROOM . . ' . 
PROTEST . .... 
QUA CURSUM VENTUS 

THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA- 
VUOLICH" ...... 

HERA ..... 

AMOURS DE VOYAGE" 
DOMUM SATURS, VENIT HES 
PERUS ...... 

AH ! YET CONSIDER IT AGAIN . 

WHERE LIES THE LAND 



3lolm Campbell 

ICH BEIN-Y-VREICH 



213 

213 
213 



214 
214 
214 

215 
216 
217 

217 
218 
218 



219 



iflenella 33ute Smetolep 

THE LITTLE FAIR SOUL 

Bofcert Lntfljton 
THE DRIED-UP FOUNTAIN 

ittattbeuj arnol* 

WRITTEN IN EMERSON'S ESSAYS . 
THE WORLD AND THE QUIETIST 

FROM "SOHRAB AND RuSTUM " . 

FROM "BALDER DEAD" . . ... t . 
THE FORSAKEN MERMAN .'. . , 
PHILOMELA .... ,{'? 
DOVER BEACH . . . < ; . , 
FROM "EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA" . lt ^'.\ 
THE BURIED LIFE . 
MEMORIAL VERSES (on Wordsworth) 
GEIST'S GRAVE .... 

Charles i\cnt 
POPE AT TWICKENHAM . . . 

(LQilliam CaHttoell llocroc 

To LA SANSCCEUB .... 
THE MASTER-CHORD . . . . ' 
EARTH . '. ;. \ . . .> / , 1 

William fobncon Corp 

MlMNERMUS IN CHURCH . . * ! ' .' '* 

HERACLEITUS ..... 
A POOR FRENCH SAILOR'S SCOTTISH 
SWEETHEART . . . . " . 



(iEnfotmU 



EPITAPH OF DIONYSIA 



219 



.220 



221 
221 
221 
223 
224 
225 
226 
226 
227 



230 



231 
231 
231 



231 
232 



Cobentrp |)atmore 



FROM " THE ANGEL IN THE HOUSE 
THE GIRL OF ALL PERIODS . 
FROM " THE UNKNOWN EROS " ..': 
REGINA C<ELI . 



233 
235 
235 



Walter C. Smith 

DAUGHTERS OF PHUJSTIA (from 

"Olrig Grange") ..... 236 
THE SELF-EXILED ..... 237 



Jranda Cttrner 

THE ANCIENT AND MODERN MUSES 



. 239 



xxvi 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



PRO MOBTUIS 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
A LITTLE CHILD'S HYMN 
A DANISH BARROW . 



TENNYSON 



&rtlwr 



l)cnrp Jmrlep 



Jltmfcp 



239 
240 
240 
241 



241 



DORIS : A PASTORAL .... 242 
FROM "DOROTHY : A COUNTRY STORY" 

Dorothy 243 

Country Kisses 244 

Dorothy's Room .... 244 
Beauty at the Plough . . . .245 

FLOS FLORUM 246 

SWEET NATURE'S VOICE (from "Susan") 246 



Craig 



THE WOODRUFFE 



247 



FROM " ^HE LIGHT OF ASIA " . .247 
THE CALIPH'S DRAUGHT ... 248 
AFTER DEATH IN ARABIA . . .249 

RAGLAN 250 

FROM " WITH SA'DI IN THE GARDEN " 

Mahmud and Ayaz .... 250 

Song without a Sound . . . 250 

THE MUSMEE . 251 



J&topfortt &ttgtt0ttt0 



VERSAILLES (1784) ..... 252 

THE JUNGFRAU'S CRY . . . .253 

SONGS FROM " RlQUET OF THE TUFT " 

Queen's Song ..... 254 

Prince Riquet's Song . . . . 254 



254 
255 



256 
256 



256 
257 
257 



MARE MEDITERRANEUM 

H, W. L 

Jranct0, (Karl 0f Eoaslpn 

BEDTIME 

MEMORY 



>ir letois JHorrte 

AT LAST 

SONG 

ON A THRUSH SINGING ix AUTUMN 



(Gilbert J)amertoit 

THE SANYASSI 

THE WILD HUNTSMEN . 



EoUen 



THE SECRET OF THE NIGHTINGALE 

SEA SLUMBER-SONG 

DYING ....... 

THE MERRY-GO-ROUND . 

LAMENT ...... 

THE TOY CROSS .... 

"THAT THEY ALL MAY BE ONE " . 



Sir 

MEDITATIONS OF A HINDU PRINCE 

SUfreto &ttfitm 

AT His GRAVE (Hughenden, May, 1881) 
SONGS FROM "PRINCE LUCIFER" 

Grave-Digger's Song 

Mother-Song 

AGATHA 

THE HAYMAKERS' SONG 



MARIAN 

PHANTOMS 

BY THE SALPETRIERE 

A VISION OF. CHILDREN. 

POETA NASCITUR 



OTattd 



ODE TO MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKEN 

THE SONNET'S VOICE 

COLERIDGE . . . 

THE BREATH OF AVON . 

THE FIRST Kiss .... 

TOAST TO OMAR KHAYYAM 



SDatofo 



THE DEAR OLD TOILING ONE 
I DIE, BEING YOUNG 
MY EPITAPH 



258 
259 



. 259 
260 

, 260 
261 

. 261 
262 

. 262 



263 

264 
265 
265 
265 



266 
266 
266 
267 
267 



267 
269 
269 
270 
270 
270 



271 

272 
272 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



xxvil 








272 


f rctoeric (MtUiam |)enrp $1] 

FROM " SAINT PAUL "... 


. 291 


Lux EST UMBRA DEI ... 


273 




. 292 




273 


ON A GRAVE AT GRINDELWALD 


. 292 


THE FALL OF A SOUL .... 


274 
274 


A LAST APPEAL .... 
IMMORTALITY 


. 292 
. 292 


IL FIOR I>EGLI EROICI FURORI . 


274 
274 


A LETTER FROM NEWPORT . 

I SAW, I SAW THE LOVELY CHILD . 


. 292 

. L".*3 




275 








275 


(BfttDatti *DolutJCtt 








RENUNCIANTS 


. 293 


Scanner |a ? f app 


97fi 


LEONARDO'S " MONNA LISA " . 


. 294 
. 294 




276 








276 


;tlatffarct J9cUp 






277 




. 294 


Codiuo ;Honfel)ou6c 
SONG . . . 


277 


JLaKp Cttrrte 

( VIOLET FAN* ") 


. 295 




278 


A FOREBODING . . . . . 


.295 


THE SECRET 


278 


IN GREEN OLD GARDENS 


296 

>< u; 


Eobcrt 33ttcl)anan 

THE BALLAD OF JUDAS ISCARIOT . 
SPRING SONG IN THE CITY . 
THE WAKE OF TIM O'HARA . 


279 
281 
282 
283 


Samuel OTatfoinffton 

THE INN OF CARE .... 
SOUL AND BODY ...'.. 


. 297 
. 297 


ON A YOUNG POETESS'S GRAVE > u^ 


283 




. 297 


THE SUMMER POOL .... 
WE ARE CHILDREN 
WHEN WE ARE ALL ASLEEP 
THE DREAM OF THE WORLD WITHOUT 
DEATH (from " The Book of Orm ") 
THE FAERY FOSTER-MOTHER 


283 

284 

284 

285 
288 


ETSI OMNES, EGO NON 
44 THE SEA-MAIDS' Music" . 

<J5eorffe jFraiuia S>abaffe=9lnn( 

AUTUMN MEMORIES . , .1 . 


. 299 
. 299 

tronjr 

. 299 
. 299 


THE CHURCHYARD 


289 


ONE IN THE INFINITE 


. 300 
. 300 


<milp flfetffet 

A SONG OF WINTER .... 
To A MOTH THAT DRINKETH OF THE 


290 
oqn 


44 THE FATHER " .... 

Mantes Chapman ffilooUfi 


.300 
. 301 


To THE HERALD HONEYSUCKLE . 


291 


THE WORLD'S DEATH-NIGHT . 


. 301 



BALLADISTS AND LYRISTS 



iotttea JHatattiup Cratoforti 

KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN . . . 



301 



THE OLD CAVALIER 

THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS 



302 



XXV111 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



William JHaliepeace C&acfcerap 

AT THE CHURCH GATE .... 303 
THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE . . 303 
THE AGE OF WISDOM . . . .304 


THE THREE TROOPERS . . . . 
THE WHITE ROSE OVER THE WATER 
THE JACOBITE ON TOWER HILL . 
THE DEATH OF MARLBOROUGH 
THE OLD GRENADIER'S STORY . 


321 
. 321 
322 
. 322 
322 


SORROWS OF WERTHER .... 


305 






THE PEN AND THE ALBUM 


. 305 


ejr * jj-i ., 




THE MAHOGANY TREE .... 


306 


jlopn jyettco 




THE END OF THE PLAY . 


. 306 


THE LAIRD OF SCHELYNLAW . 


. 323 


C&arlea )icfcen0 




^Testi ^Tntrtlntai 




THE IVY GREEN .... 


. 307 


J/VCMI ^j ti^vium 




Cljarlefi fctngslep 




THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF 
LINCOLNSHIRE 


324 


FROM " THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY " . 


308 


SAILING BEYOND SEAS 


. 326 




309 


THE LONG W^HITE SEAM 


097 


THE THREE FISHERS .... 


309 




sxt 


A MYTH 
THE DEAD CHURCH .... 
ANDROMEDA AND THE SEA -NYMPHS 


. 309 
309 


Eofcert SDtoper 3Toj?ce 

CROSSING THE BLACKWATER . 


. 327 


(from " Andromeda ") 
THE LAST BUCCANEER .... 


. 310 
310 


Cllen 'lear? 




LORRAINE 


311 


To GOD AND IRELAND TRUE 


qoo 


A FAREWELL 


311 




uuBO 


SUelatoe &nne Procter 




Hamilton &tte 




A WOMAN'S QUESTION 
A DOUBTING HEART .... 
THE REQUITAL 


. 312 
312 
, 313 
313 


REMEMBER OR FORGET 
THE DANUBE RIVER .... 
WHEN WE ARE PARTED . 
THE FORSAKEN 


. 328 
328 
. 329 
329 


PER PACEM AD LUCEM .... 


>ina& JHaria Jftttlocfe Craifc 




3Tofl!ep& Mipaep 




PHILIP, MY KING 


3-14 


MOTHER WEPT 


329 


Too LATE 


314 


THE DEWDROP 


329 






THE BUTTERFLY .... 


. 330 


Carl of ls>autl)csk 








(Sis JAMES CABNEGIB) 




Bic&arfc (ftarnett 




THE FLITCH OF DUNMOW . 
NOVEMBER'S CADENCE .... 


. 315 
315 


THE ISLAND OF SHADOWS 
THE FAIR CIRCASSIAN 


330 
. 331 


JHortimer Collins 




THE BALLAD OF THE BOAT . 
THE LYRICAL POEM .... 


331 
. 331 


A GREEK IDYL . 




THE DIDACTIC POEM .... 


331 


KATE TEMPLE'S SONG 


q-jc 


ON AN URN 


332 


THE IVORY GATE 


olo 
Qif! 


AGE 


332 


(Milliam &lling!)am 




To AMERICA 


o 332 


THE FAIRIES .... 


317 


2To|)n QToIi^unter 




LOVELY MARY DONNELLY 
THE SAILOR . 


. 317 
318 


THE BANSHEE 


332 




A DREAM . . . .'.'.' 


318 


10 u or t. fir 




HALF-WAKING . 


319 


JU. 5?t. 4JoI)u (L-i>rtuoitt 




DAY AND NIGHT SONGS . . 


. 319 


THE GLORY OF MOTION 


. 333 


(Eeorffe Walter C&omlmrp 




Clement S^eott 




THE THREE SCARS . 


320 




334 


MELTING OF THE EARL'S PLATE 


. 320 


LILIAN ADELAIDE NEILSON 


. 334 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



XXIX 



&ara{) 

OMAR AND THE PERSIAN . . . 

&ir Walter 35csant 

To DAPHNE ........ 



335 



336 



Latop Ltnteap 



SONNET 

MY HEART is A LUTE 



VARIOUS DISTINCTIVE POETS 



(L Iiomaa Norton bafec 

OLD SOULS 337 

THE SIBYI 339 



Ctotoarti f tt^eralfc 

FROM His PARAPHRASE OF THE RUBAI- 
YAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM 

Overture t V 

Paradise Enow . . . . . , 

The Master-Knot .... 

The Phantom Caravan . 

The Moving Finger writes 

And yet And yet I . . . , 



Kobert 



340 
340 
341 
341 
342 
342 



343 



SONG FROM " PARACELSUS " . 
CAVALIER TUNES 

1. Marching along .... 343 

2. Give a Rouse 344 

3. Boot and Saddle .... 344 

MY LAST DUCHESS 344 

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP . . 345 

IN A GONDOLA 346 

SONG FROM " PIPPA PASSES " . . .348 
" How THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS 

FROM GHENT TO Aix" ... 349 

THE LOST LEADER 350 

YOUTH AND ART 350 

HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD . . 351 

A FACE 351 

*^DE GUSTIBUS " 352 

THE BISHOP ORDERS His TOMB AT 

SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH ... 352 

MEETING AT NIGHT 354 

PARTING AT MORNING .... 354 

EVELYN HOPE 354 

** CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER 

CAME" 355 

RESPECTABILITY 358 

MEMORABILIA 358 

ONE WAY OF LOVE 359 

ONK WORD MORE 359 

ABT VOOLER 362 

PROSPICE 363 

MISCONCEPTIONS 364 



EPITAPH (Levi Lincoln Thaxter) 
MUCKLE-MOUTH MEG 
EPILOGUE . . . .,,> 



364 
364 



How 's MY BOY ? . 4 ,-. ii .- .365 

A NUPTIAL EVE 366 

TOMMY 's DEAD . . 367 



HOME IN WAR-TIME .... 

AMERICA ....... 

EPIGRAM ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD 

FORBES ....... 

SEA BALLAD (from " Balder ") . 
DANTE, SHAKESPEARE, MILTON 

"Balder") 

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. BROWNING 
FRAGMENT OF A SLEEP-SONG . 



(from 



FROM "MODERN LOVE" 

44 All Other Joys" . 

Hiding the Skeleton .. 

The Coin of Pity . 

One Twilight Hour .. 
JUGGLING JERRY ' ' ' 
THE LARK ASCENDING . 
LUCIFER IN STARLIGHT . 
THE SPIRIT OF SHAKESPEARE 
THE Two MASKS 



368 



368 
368 



370 
370 



371 
371 
371 
371 
371 
373 
374 
374 
375 



A DIRGE FOR SUMMER . 
WHAT THE TRUMPETER SAID 



375 
. 375 



Cbrtfittna v5corg;ma Ho00etti 

THE UNSEEN WORLD 

At Home ; i ; . . . 37( 
Remember ...... 37H 

After Death 376 

Wife to Husband 376 

Up-Hill 377 

"!T is FINISHED" 377 

FROM " MONNA INNOMINATA " 

Abnegation 378 

Trust .... .378 



XXX 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



FLUTTERED WINGS .... 378 
PASSING AND GLASSING . . . .378 
THE THREAD OF LIFE . . . .379 
FROM "LATER LIFE" 

Sonnets VI and IX . . . .379 
AN ECHO FROM WILLOWWOOD . . 379 

TWIST ME A CROWN 379 

GOOD-BY 380 

Bofcett, Carl of Iptton 

(" OWEN MEREDITH") 

INDIAN LOVE-SONG 380 

Aux ITALIENS 380 

THE CHESS-BOARD . .382 



TEMPORA ACTA (from " Babylonia ") . 382 
THE DINNER-HOUR (from " Lucile ") . 383 
THE LEGEND OF THE DEAD LAMBS . 383 
THE UTMOST .... .384 



MELENCOLIA (from " The City of Dread 
ful Night") 385 

LIFE'S HEBE .386 

FROM " HE HEARD HER SING " . .387 

Harriet (Eleanor Hamilton &in# 

PALERMO (from " The Disciples ") . . 388 
THE CROCUS 389 



POETS OF THE RENAISSANCE 



Jortr 



Proton 



FOR THE PICTURE, "THE LAST OF 
ENGIAND " ...... 

O. M. B 



f ofiepi Boei 

REQUIEM ....... 390 

THE LAST OF THE EURYDICE . . 391 



Woolner 



MY BEAUTIFUL LA*DY- .... 391 
GIVEN OVER . 392 



SDante (Gabriel 

THE BLESSED DAMOZEL . . .392 

THE PORTRAIT 394 

FROM " THE HOUSE OF LIFE : A SON 
NET-SEQUENCE " 

Introductory 395 

Lovesight 395 

Her Gifts 395 

The Dark Glass 396 

Without Her 3% 

Broken Music 396 

Inclusiveness 396 

A Superscription . 397 

SONNETS ON PICTURES 

A Venetian Pastoral . . . .397 

Mary Magdalene 397 

SUDDEN LIGHT 397 

THE WOODSPURGE 398 

THE SEA-LIMITS 398 



A LITTLE WHILE 398 

THE BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES . . 398 

Htt&arK SUlatann )tj:on 

ODE ON CONFLICTING CLAIMS . . .399 

HUMANITY 400 

FROM "MANO: A POETICAL HISTORY" 

The Skylark 400 

Of a Vision of Hell, which a Monk 

had 400 

Of Temperance in Fortune . . . 401 



THE GILLYFLOWER OF GOLD . . 402 

SHAMEFUL DEATH 403 

THE BLUE CLOSET 403 

FROM " THE EARTHLY PARADISE " 

The Singer's Prelude . . . .404 
Atalanta's Victory .... 405 

Atalanta's Defeat 407 

The King's Visit .... 408 

Song : To Psyche 409 

A Land across the Sea . . . 409 
Antiphony ...... 410 

FROM "SIGURD THE VOLSUNG" 

Of the Passing Away of Brynhild . 410 
The Burghers' Battle . . . .413 

A Death Song 413 

lotto ?De Cafclcp 

(JOHN LEICESTER WARREN) 



A WOODLAND GRAVE 
A SIMPLE MAID 



414 
415 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



xxxi 



FORTUNE'S WHEEL 

ClKCE 

A SONG OF FAITH FORSWORN 
THE Two OLD KINGS .. 



IK MATCH ....... 

HKSPKKIA ....... 

Kr MEMORY OF WALTER SAVAGE LAN- 
DOR ....... 

LOVK AT SEA ...... 

FROM " ROSAMOND " . 

FROM " ATALANTA IN CALYDON " 
Wlien the Hounds of Spring 
We have seen Thee, O Love . , 

FROM "CHASTELARD" .... 

FROM " BOTH WELL " , 

SAI-J-HO (from "On the Cliffs ") 

HOPE AND FEAR . , 

ON THE DEATHS OF THOMAS CARLYLK 
f AND GEORGE ELIOT . . t '/ 

HERTHA ...... 

ETUDE REALISTE ..... 
^THE ROUNDEL ..... 

A FORSAKEN GARDEN .... 

ON THE MONUMENT ERECTED TO MAZ- 
ZINI AT GENOA . ... . .,. 



CADENCES 
SIBYL . 
THOROERDA 
MOVE'S AUTUMN 
SONGS' END . 



415 
415 
416 
417 



417 
417 

419 
420 
420 

421 
422 
422 
425 
427 
428 

428 
428 
431 
431 
432 

433 



434 
434 
435 
435 
436 



Eofaert 

POOR WITHERED ROSE 

I WILL NOT LET THEE GO . , 

UPON THE SHOKB 

A PASSER-BY . 

ELEGY 

THOU DIDST DELIGHT MY EYES , 

AWAKE, MY HEART ! 
O YOUTH WHOSE HOPE is HIGH 
So SWEET LOVE SEEMED . 
ASIAN BIRDS , 



437 
437 
437 
438 
438 
438 
439 
439 
400 
439 



THE FAIR MAID AND THE SUN . . 440 
HAS SUMMER COME WITHOUT THE ROSE ? 441 

AT HER GRAVE 441 

SILENCES . .''.'. . 441 
IF SHE BUT KNEW ; 442 

Pltltp -BourUr ittaroton 

A GREETING . . . A . . .442 
A VAIN WISH . . . . . .442 

LOVE'S Music . . .... 442 

THE ROSE AND THE WIND . . .443 
How MY SONG OF HER BEGAN . . 444 
THE OLD CHURCHYARD OF BONCHURCH 444 
GARDEN FAIRIES . . . . . 444 

LOVE AND Music 445 

No DEATH 445 

AT THE LAST . . . . . . 446 

HER PITY 446 

AFTER SUMMER 446 

To THE SPIRIT OF POETRY . . . 447 
IF You WERE HERE .... 447 
AT LAST . . .447 



I Com GTaplor 

M " THE FOOL'S REVENGE " 
ABRAHAM LINCOLN .. 



DRAMATISTS AND PLAYWRIGHTS 

|)erman 



Meatlanfc iHareton 

FROM " MARIE DE MERANIE " 

ollilliam <0orman ffiUll* 

CROMWELL AND HENRIETTA MARIA 
(from " Charles the First ") . 

CTUUiam &c!)tocncfe Gilbert 

FROM " PYGMALION AND GALATEA" 



448 
450 



452 



455 



457 



XLX . 
READY, AY, READY 
THAISA'S DIRGE 



461 
461 

462 



dilUbotcr 



SONGS FROM DRAMAS 

News to the King . . . .462 

'Tween Earth and Sky ... 462 
Day is Dead ...... 463 

Tell Me not of Morrows, Sweet . 463 

THE DEATHS OF MYRON AND KLY- 
DONB (from " In a Day "> . . .463 






XXX11 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



ELEGANT!^ 



Jrefiertcfc Locfecr^iampson 

(FREDERICK LOCKEB) 

To MY GRANDMOTHBK .... 465 

THE WIDOW'S MITE 466 

ON AN OLD MUFF .... 466 

To MY MISTRESS 467 

THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD . 467 

Hofarrt -Barnabas 3Srottgf) 

MY LORD TOMNODDY . . . .468 

C-barlcfi Stuart Calterlep 

COMPANIONS 469 

BALLAD 469 

ON THE BRINK 470 



A MARLOW MADRIGAL 

A PORTRAIT . 

THE LITTLE REBEL . 



iSEtlltam Join Cottrt&ape 

FROM " THE PARADISE OF BIRDS " 
Birdcatcher's Song 
Ode To the Roc 
In Praise of Gilbert White 

&it jFreUencfc |) olio tit 

THE Six CARPENTERS' CASE . 



.471 

471 
. 472 



472 
472 
473 



474 



"THE LAND OF WONDER-WANDER" 



(Efitoartt lear 



THE JUMBLIES 



475 



muitam 3Srig!)tp Banto 

TOPSY-TURVY WORLD . . .476 
POLLY 476 



DRESSING THE DOLL 
I SAW A NEW WORLD 



477 

. 477 



Claries ittttoftge 3Dotyj;0on 

("LEWIS CABEOLL"). 

JABBERWOCKY 478 

FROM " THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK " 478 

OF ALICE IN WONDERLAND . . 479 



III. CLOSE OF THE ERA 

(INTERMEDIARY PERIOD) 
RECENT POETS OF GREAT BRITAIN 



Austin Ootaon 



A DEAD LETTER 

A RONDEAU TO ETHEL . 

14 WITH PIPE AND FLUTE " 

A GAGE D'AMOUR . 

THE CRADLE 

THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE 

THE CURE'S PROGRESS 

'' GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTE " 

DN A FAN 



.483 
. . 484 

. 485 
. 485 

. 486 
. 486 

. 486 
. 486 

. 487 
'ONAVis" .... 488 



"0 FONS BANDUSLE" 

FOR A COPY OF THEOCRITUS . 

To A GREEK GIRL .... 

ARS VICTRIX 

THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S . . 
A FAMILIAR EPISTLE . . . 
44 IN AFTER DAYS" . 

SSRilfrtU &catoen 4Sltmt 

To MANON COMPARING HER TO A 
FALCON 



488 
488 
488 
489 
489 
490 
491 



491 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



XXXlll 



To THE SAME ON HER LIQHT- 
HEAKTEDNESS ...... 491 

LAUGHTEU AND DEATH .... 491 



THE OLD SQUIRE 



492 



frank <ZC. 



DEATH AS THE TEACHER OF LOVE- 
LORE . . . ... .493 

DEATH AS THE FOOL . ' . . .493 
TWO SONNET-SONGS 

1. The Sirens sing . . . .493 

2. Orpheus and the Mariners make 
Answer . . .493 



Cotterell 



AN AUTUMN FLITTING 
IN THE TWILIGHT 



494 
. 495 



&nfcreto Lang; 
BALLADES 

To Theocritus, in Winter ... 495 
Of the Book-Hunter . .' . .496 
Of Blue China . . . .496 

Of Life ....... 496 

Of his Choice of a Sepulchre . . 497 
ROMANCE . . . j. . . .497 

THE ODYSSEY ...... 497 

SAN TERENZO . . . ft t^, -497 
SCYTHE SONG . ..... 498 

MELVILLE AND COGHILL . ,***> 498 
PARAPHRASES 

Erinna . ^ . , n1w /j . . 498 
Telling the Bees . . . .498 

Heliodore Dead '"'.". . . 498 
A SCOT TO JEANNE D'ARC . . . 499 
THREE PORTRAITS OF PRINCE CHARLES 499 
-<Esop ..... . . " '. .499 

ON CALAIS SANDS . . W n .^^ 50 

William Canton 

KARMA . ..... 500 

LAUS INFANTIUM ..... 501 

A NEW POET ...... 501 



J)artlep 



To A DAISY 



501 



8lejcanfcer ftntoenson 

CUDDLE DOON . 502 



milp Henrietta |)ietep 

A SEA STORY 502 

BELOVED, IT is MORN . . . .503 

Walter Crane 

A SEAT FOR THREE .... 503 
ACROSS THE FIELDS 503 

Cttffene Lrr bnmtlton 

SIR WALTER RALEIGH TO A CAGED 

LINNET 604 

IZAAK WALTON TO RIVER AND BROOK . 504 
CHARLES II OF SPAIN TO APPROACH 
ING DEATH 504 

To MY TORTOISE CHRONOS . . .504 
SUNKEN GOLD ...... T*< iv. 505 

SEA-SHELL MURMURS . . . .606 

A FLIGHT FROM GLORY ... 606 
WHAT THE SONNET is . . . .505 

ON HIS "SONNETS OF THE WINGLESS 
HOURS " . 606 



(0rabe0 

THE WHITE BLOSSOM 's OFF THE BOG . 506 

frrtjcnfea IlicbnrUcon iHacUonalU 
NEW YEAR'S EVE MIDNIGHT . . 606 



THE DEAD CHILD . . l7 *a A' .507 
IF ONLY THOU ART TRUE . . . 507 
THE OLD MAID ...... 507 



JreHertc 



iOTeat&erlp 



LONDON BRIDGE ..... 508 

NANCY LEE . ...... 608 

A BIRD IN THE HAND .... 609 

DOUGLAS GORDON ..... 609 

DARBY AND JOAN ..... 510 

Catherine C. LUftell 



511 
511 



LYING IN THE GRASS .... 511 
ON A LUTE FOUND IN A SARCOPHAGUS 512 

THE PIPE-PLAYER 513 

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSKN, 1805-1875 513 



(C. C. 

JESUS THE CARPENTER 
THE POET IN THE CITY . 



XXXIV 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



DE Rosis HIBERNIS .... 
THEOCRITUS 
WITH A COPY OF HERRICK . 
THE VOICE OF D. G. R. . 


513 
. 514 
514 
. 514 


3fof)ft lrt|)tir (Sooljcljtlft 

SCHONE ROTHRAUT .... 


. 527 


A PARABLE OF THE SPIRIT 

(Erie Jftackap 

THE WAKING OF THE LARK . 
MARY ARDEN 


528 

. 529 
530 


SONG FOR Music 
A PASTORAL 


514 
. 515 


TWICKENHAM FERRY .... 
MAY MARGARET .... 
LAST NIGHT 


515 
. 516 
516 
. 516 


IN TUSCANY 


. 531 
532 

. 532 
532 
. 532 

533 
533 


jF. (Mpfcille f)ome 

AN ENGLISH GIRL .... 
DOVER CLIFF 


CARPE DIEM 


SSRalter J)errieg Pollock 

BELOW THE HEIGHTS .... 


516 
. 517 


IN A SEPTEMBER NIGHT . 

f rancia WUlliam 38ottrtrillon 

EURYDICE 


FATHER FRANCIS ..... 

Jftic&ael JtclK 

FROM " CANUTE THE GREAT " . 
THE BURIAL OF ROBERT BROWNING . 
WIND OF SUMMER .... 
THE DANCERS 
LETTICE 
EARTH TO EARTH 
AN vEouAN HARP .... 
IRIS ...... 


517 

. 517 
519 
. 520 
520 
. 520 
521 
. 521 
521 

. 522 

522 


A VIOLINIST 


OLD AND YOUNG 
THE NIGHT HAS A THOUSAND EYES 

J)eriert eutotn Clarke 

IN THE WOOD 


533 
. 533 

. 533 


A CRY 


534 
. 534 


THE AGE 


lafcp Charlotte (Elliot 

THE WIFE OF LOKI .... 

(Militant Barnes SDatoson 

A CHILD'S PORTRAIT .... 
BIRD'S SONG AT MORNING 
IDEAL MEMORY 


535 

, 535 
535 
. 536 


FROM " A LOVE-TRILOGY " . 
THE DEAD 


FROM " LOVE IN EXILE " 

Eofaert Louts >teben0on 

PIRATE STORY 


. 522 

523 
. 523 


To A DESOLATE FRIEND 
THE ANGEL AT THE FORD 

Jrancea JJaabel Jhrnell 

AFTER DEATH 

SUice ;ptejHiell 

THE MODERN POET .... 
SONG 
CHANGELESS 
RENOUNCEMENT 
SONG OF THE NIGHT AT DAYBREAK 

flaken&am Eeattp 

CHARLES LAMB 


536 
. 537 

537 

. 538 
538 
. 538 
539 
. 539 

539 

. 539 


FOREIGN LANDS 


THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE 
THE LAND OF NOD .... 
IN THE SEASON 
To N. V. DE G. S 


523 
. 524 
524 
. 524 


IN THE STATES 
THE SPAEWIFE 


524 
525 


HEATHER ALE : A GALLOWAY LEGEND 
THE WHAUPS To S. R. C. . 
REQUIEM 


525 
. 526 
526 

. 526 
527 
. 527 


<S5leeaon SMfctte 

A BALLADE OF PLAYING CARDS 
SUFFICIENCY 




THE DEATH OF HAMPDEN 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



XXXV 



Itoer 



BEFORE AND AFTEK 
LAURA'S SONG 



541 
541 



541 
542 
542 



542 
544 



SPRING'S IMMORTALITY .... 545 

AT THE GRAVE OF DANTE GABRIEL 
ROSSETTI ....... 545 

AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON . . . 545 



(Efctoar* Cracroft 5Lcfrop 

A SHEPHERD MAIDEN ... 

A SICILIAN NIOHT 

A FOOTBALL-PLAYER ... 

Jflap JJrofapn 

THE BEES OF MYDDELTON MANOR 
" Is IT NOTHING TO You ? " . . 



(ZTont SDutt 

OUR CASUARINA TREE . 



.545 



THE LAST ABORIGINAL .... 546 

THE COVES OF CRAIL . . . .547 

THE ISLE OF LOST DREAMS ... 547 
THE DEATH-CHILD ..... 547 

FROM "SOSPIRI DI ROMA" 

Susurro ...... 548 

Red Poppies '. '. ... 548 

The White Peacock .... 548 

SONG ........ 549 

Oscar GHUifte 

AVE IMPERATRIX ..... 549 

iS. o ol. j^laDcn 

A CHRISTMAS LETTER FROM AUSTRALIA 551 
SUNSET ON THE CUNIMBLA VALLEY, 
BLUE MOUNTAINS . . ..552 

THE TROPICS ...... 552 

FROM THE DRAMA OF " CHARLES II ". 552 
BALOPIA INHOSPITALIS . . . .552 

henry Charles -Brrcbtnj 

A SUMMER DAY ..... 553 

To MY TOTEM . ..... 553 

KNOWLEDGE AFTER DEATH ... 554 
PRAYERS . .554 



AN ETRUSCAN RING 



5. iS. & .Hicbols 

LINES BY A PERSON OF QUALITY 
A PASTORAL 



>armestettr 



(A. MART F. ROBINSON) 

DAWN-ANGELS . 1"" *. . . 
COCKAYNE COUNTRY . . . * 
CELIA'S HOME-COMING 
FROM " TUSCAN CYPRESS " (Rispetti) 
ROSA ROSARUM ..... 
DARWINISM ..... 
A BALLAD OF ORLEANS, 1429 . 



3Jobn 



HARVEST-HOME SONG 
A BALLAD OF HEAVEN 
LONDON 



555 



556 
556 
556 
557 
557 
657 
558 



558 



LOVE AND DEATH ..... 560 
SISTER MARY OF THE LOVE OF GOD . 560 



Elan* 

BALLAD OF A BRIDAL V?M ;<l ' . . 661 

Constance C . W 

THE PANTHEIST'S SONG OF IMMORTAL 
ITY ..... ... 662 



Eennell Hot* 

A ROMAN MIRROR ..... 663 

ACTEA ........ 664 

IMPERATOR AUGUSTUS .... 664 

THE DAISY ....... 664 

44 WHEN I AM DEAD" -. t" . . 664 
THEN AND Now ...... 664 

ffilltam Watson 



EPIGRAMS 

To a Seabird . 

The Play of 44 King Lear" 

Byron the Voluptuary . 

On Diirer'8 MelencoQa 

Exit 



665 
665 
665 
566 



XXXVI 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



LACHRYM^: MUSARUM (6th October, 
1892) 


565 
567 

568 

568 
569 

569 
569 
569 

569 
570 
570 

571 
571 
572 

572 
573 
574 
574 
574 
574 

575 

575 
576 
576 
576 
577 

577 
578 
578 
578 


Simp iLetop 

A LONDON PLANE-TREE 
BETWEEN THE SHOWERS . 
IN THE MILE END ROAD . . . 
To VERNON LEE .... 

(Elizabeth Craigmple 

SOLWAY SANDS 

rnest Bhpe 


579 
579 
579 
. 579 

579 

. 580 


THE FIRST SKYLARK OF SPRING 
SONG IN IMITATION OF THE ELIZABETH- 


&rthur BeeU Bopes 


ON THE BRIDGE 

3fohn Arthur $laifcie 




AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY .... 
DIANA 


581 
. 581 


LOVE'S SECRET NAME . . . . 

jFrancte Chompflon 

To A POET BREAKING SILENCE . 


BRECHVA'S HARP SONG .... 


581 

. 582 


SONG OF THE WULFSHAW LARCHES 

Arthur Christopher 38en0on 


582 
. 582 




3ame0 Kenneth Stephen 

LAPSUS CALAMI To R. K. . 




583 
. 583 
583 

. 584 
584 
584 
. 585 
585 
. 585 


AN ENGLISH SHELL .... 
AFTER CONSTRUING .... 

jBorman (0ale 

SONG " THIS PEACH is PINK " . 
SONG " WAIT BUT A LITTLE WHILE " 
A PRIEST 
THE COUNTRY FAITH 
A DEAD FRIEND 
CONTENT 


A SONNET 

BofiamtmU ^Harriott (fflateon 

("GBAHAM R. TOMSON") 

LE MAUVAIS LARRON .... 
DEID FOLKS' FERRY 


THE FARM ON THE LINKS 

TV "VT-w P A m 


THE FIRST Kiss 


585 
. 586 


AVE ATQUE VALE . . . . " . 

li^^ie JH little 


DAWN AND DARK . . . . . 

a. (. <ttiller'-Cottch 

THE SPLENDID SPUR .... 
THE WHITE MOTH ..... 

A CURLEW'S CALL .... 

S>eltopn 3^ma^e 

THE PROTESTATION .... 


586 

. 586 

587 

. 587 

590 
. 591 


Katharine Cpnan IMnfcson 

SHEEP AND LAMBS 
DE PROFUNDIS 
SINGING STARS . , . . . 
THE SAD MOTHER 
THE DEAD COACH 

JHap Kendall 

A PURE HYPOTHESIS .... 
A BOARD SCHOOL PASTORAL . 


HER CONFIRMATION . ... 

|)erfrert $. |)0rne 


591 
. 591 


THE PAGE OF LANCELOT . 


FORMOSAE PUELLAE .... 


591 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



xxxvii 





592 


THE FOLK OF THE AIR 


. 604 


** IF SHE BE MADE OF WHITE AND RED" 


592 


THE SONG OF THE OLD MOTHER. 


605 


iflarsarct L. TOoote 




(0eorge d.Gltlliam Lltioocll 




R EgT 


592 


("A.E.") 




To THE FORGOTTEN DEAD . 


592 


SELF-DISCIPLINE .... 


. 605 




593 


KKISHNA 


605 






THE GREAT BREATH .... 


. 606 


UtcbartJ Lr <J3alltrnnc 




THE MAN TO THE ANGEL . . . 

OM ,-i'i'i ". -;><! ya< 


606 
606 






IMMORTALITY . . , 4 .-.,.., V v " 


606 


ORBITS 


593 






LOVE'S POOR ...... 


593 








593 


0r hrfiTrnrr ffnTrntiKlnVii 




Tin \VONDER~CHILD. . . V^.13 


594 


VI, IJlUUUll V^ v,l I (1 1 1 Itl UJ 




AN OLD MAN'S SONG .... 


594 


THE MUSIC-HALL .... 


607 


THE PASSIONATE READER TO HIS POET 


594 




BO! 








607 


EaUparU Uiplmg; 












JHarp C. (9. ^Spron 




DANNY DEEVER 


595 


r f* 




** FUZZY-WUZZY " 


595 


(M. C. GlLLINQTON) 




THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST 


596 


THE TRYST OF THE NIGHT . 


607 


THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS . 


598 


THE FAIRY THRALL . a i'" 5 . 


. 608 


THE LAW OF THE JUNGLE . . . ^ 


599 






THE LAST CHANTEY . . . ".'" . 


600 










3ltcc . i^tlltncrton 




Arthur &pmon0 




THE SEVEN WHISTLERS .... 


608 


AT FONTAINEBLEAU . . . . 

JAVANESE DANCERS ..... 


601 
601 


THE ROSY MUSK-MALLOW 
THE DOOM-BAB 


. 609 
609 


DURING Music <;":. 


601 








601 


^oi'ci *^icrrrDon 




Collie UatJforti 




ALL SOULS' NIGHT ., ^ . J. 


. 610 










IF ALL THE WORLD .... 


602 


Pcrcp 3tUUlr0I)atu 






602 






MY LITTLE DEAR 


602 


("PEBCY HEMINGWAY") 




A MODEL . . . -, , , 
OCTOBER v* . 


602 
603 


THE HAPPY WANDERER . . . 
TRAVELLERS . . , L .- 


611 
. 611 






IT MAY BE 


611 


William Sutler Prats 




(Dlttir Cuetancr 




AN INDIAN SONQ ., .. ^. . 


603 






AN OLD SONG RESUNO .... 


604 


THE WAKING OF SPRING . '^; r;1v ; 


. 611 


THK ROSE OF THE WORLD . . . 


604 




612 


THE WHITE BIRDS . 


604 


THE PARTING HOUR . 


612 



XXXV111 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



IV. COLONIAL POETS 

(INDIA AUSTRALASIA DOMINION OF CANADA) 

INDIA 

See TORU DUTT, RUDYARD KIPLING, in the preceding division of this Anthology. See also, in 
the second division, SIR EDWIN ARNOLD, SIR ALFRED LYALL,/^J of English birth, and 
sometime resident in India 



HOW WE BEAT THE FAVORITE 

THE SICK STOCK-RIDER . 
VALEDICTORY 



runton 
THE DOMINION OF AUSTRALIA 



617 
619 
621 



621 



FORBY SUTHERLAND . . . .622 

]!)enrj> Clarence lienttall 

To A MOUNTAIN ...... 624 

COOGEE ...... 625 



SEPTEMBER IN AUSTRALIA 
THE LAST OF His TRIBE 
THE VOICE IN THE WILD OAK 



AUSTRALASIA 
(See also: A. DOMETT, R. H. HORNE, W. SHARP, D. B. W. SLADEN) 

JJercp Ktutfell 

THE BIRTH OF AUSTRALIA . . .615 

C&atlea J>aqmr fl^'P J* &mnett 

A MIDSUMMER'S NOON IN THE Aus- THE SONG OF THE WlLD STORM-WAVES 

TRALIAN FOREST 615 

AN ABORIGINAL MOTHER'S LAMENT . 616 

Bobert lotoe 

(VISCOUNT SHEBBBOOKE) 
SONG OF THE SQUATTER . . . .616 



626 



THE WAIF 



Jrancea Cprrell <0tU 

BENEATH THE WATTLE BOUGHS* 



THE DIGGER'S GRAVE . 

&tt|)ut JJatcfjett Jftartm 

LOVE AND WAR ..... 

THE CYNIC OF THE WOODS . 



Casttlla 

AN AUSTRALIAN GIRL 

(Eleanor 

A NEW ZEALAND REGRET 
ADIEU . ... 



. 630 



631 
631 



682 



632 
633 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



XXXIX 



DOMINION OF CANADA 



Susanna &trirfelanfc jftoofcie 

CANADIAN HUNTER'S SONO ... 633 



. 634 



635 

637 



C bavin* Catuoon 
THE WALKER OF THE SNOW . 

CbarlrG hcamwcje 

SCENES FROM "SAUL" 
TWILIGHT ..... 



FROM THE DRAMA OF " DE ROBERVAL " 638 
BRAWN OF ENGLAND'S LAY ... 641 



vTbavlrc iHatr 
FROM " TECUMSEH : A DRAMA 



.641 



. logan 

(" BARRY DANK ") 

THE NOR'-WEST COURIER ... 643 
A BLOOD-RED RING HUNG ROUND THE 
MOON ....... 643 

A DEAD SINGER . . . . .644 



. 644 
646 



645 
646 
646 



To A HUMMING BIRD IN A GARDEN 
A LESSON OF MERCY .... 

jFrefcericfc Cameron 

THE GOLDEN TEXT 

STANDING ON TIPTOE .... 

WHAT MATTERS IT 



Jaabella Balance? Cratoforto 

THE CANOE ...... 646 

THE AXE ....... 647 

(Jultlltam SDouto ^rbiti'lcr Liffbt&all 

THE CONFUSED DAWN .... 648 

PR*TERITA EX INSTANTIBUS . . .648 

THE BATTLE OF LA PRAIRIE . . 648 

MONTREAL ..... .649 






C&atlea <8. 3D. Bobette 



f * . , ... . 



.649 
650 



CANADA *,- 

THE ISLES 

BURNT LANDS 

THE FLIGHT OF THE GEESE . j . 600 

THE NIGHT SKY ...... 661 

THE DESERTED CITY . . . .651 

AUTOCHTHON .- , .651 

MARSYAS . JfttylB3 BfAnO! . ^ 

EPITAPH FOR A SAILOR BURIED ASHORK 652 
THE KEEPERS OF THE PASS . . .652 
THE BIRD'S SONG, THE SUN, AND THB 
WIND . . . . . . . 663 

AFOOT . . . . ^;j^.<i,i'i . . 663 

DOMINE, CUI SUNT PLEIADES CuRAE . 663 

William Wilfreft Campbell 

To THE LAKES ...... 654 

A CANADIAN FOLK-SONO ... 654 
A LAKE MEMORY ..... 655 

THE WERE- WOLVES .... 665 



jFreUericfe 



KNOWLEDGE ...... 656 

TIME . . V *. . . . V 656 

SAMSON ....... 656 

VAN ELSEN ...... 657 

AD MAJOREM DEI GLORIAM . 658 



Uofacrtg 



IN THE GOLDEN BIRCH . 



Lampman 



HEAT 

BETWEEN THE RAPIDS . . . 

A FORECAST 

THE LOONS 

THE CITY OF THE END OF THINGS. 

-Bites Carman 



. 660 

661 

. 661 



MARIAN DRURY . . . 
A SEA CHILD . . * . 
GOLDEN ROWAN . . 
SPRING SONG . . . 
A MORE ANCIENT MARINER . 



663 
664 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



A WlNDFLOWER . 

THE MENDICANTS 
SONG . 
HACK AND HEW 
ENVOY . 



& Frances garrison 

(" SKBANUS ") 

CHATEAU PAPINEAU 
SEPTEMBER 



SDtmcan Campbell 

ABOVE ST. IRENEE ... 

A LITTLE SONG 

AT LES EBOULEMENTS . 

OTTAWA 

AT THE CEDARS ... 

IN NOVEMBER 

THE REED-PLAYER . . 

LIFE AND DEATH .. 

THE END OF THE DAY . 



665 
665 
666 
666 
666 



667 
668 



668 



670 
670 
671 
671 



filbert 

SONNETS FROM "A LOVER'S DIARY 
Love's Outset 

A Woman's Hand ... 
Art 

Invincible 
Envoy 



<. Jhttline 

THE SONG MY PADDLE SINGS 
AT HUSKING TIME 
THE VAGABONDS 



etr 



SNOWSHOEING SONG 



THE WIND OF DEATH . 
THE HOUSE OF THE TREES 
THE SNOW STORM 
To FEBRUARY 



671 
672 
672 
673 
673 



673 
674 
674 



674 



675 
675 
676 
676 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
INDEX OF TITLES .. 
INDEX OF POETS 



679 
713 

727 
741 



EARLY YEARS OF THE REIGN 

(TRANSITION PERIOD) 

CLOSE OF SOUTHEY'S LAUREATESHIP : 1837-43 
LAUREATESHIP OF WORDSWORTH: 1843-50 

Accession of Victoria R., June 20, z8jf 



THE PASSING OF THE ELDER BARDS 
FROM THE "EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE DEATH OF JAMES HOGG" 

THE mighty Minstrel breathes no longer, 
Mid mouldering- ruins low he lies ; 
And death upon the braes of Yarrow 
Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes : 

Nor has the rolling- year twice measured, 
From sign to sign, its steadfast course, 
Since every mortal power of Coleridge 
Was frozen at its marvellous source ; 

The 'rapt One, of the godlike forehead, 
The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth : 
And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, 
Has vanished from his lonely hearth. 

Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits, 
Or waves that own no curbing hand, 
How fast has brother followed brother, 
From sunshine to the sunless land ! 

Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber 
Were earlier raised, remain to hear 
A timid voice, that asks in whispers, 
" Who next will drop and disappear ? " 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

November, 1835. 



EARLY YEARS OF THE REIGN 

(TRANSITION PERIOD) 

DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



IDaltcr 



OVERTURE 

FROM "THRASYMEDES AND EUNOE " 

r HO will away to Athens with me ? who 
>ves choral songs and maidens crown'd 

with flowers, 
Unenvious ? mount the pinnace ; hoist the 

sail. 

I promise ye, as many as are here, 
Ye shall not, while ye tarry with me, taste 
From unrins'd barrel the diluted wine 
Of a low vineyard or a plant ill prun'd, 
But such as anciently the ^Egeau isles 
Pour'd in libation at their solemn feasts : 
And the same goblets shall ye grasp, 

emboss'd 

With no vile figures of loose languid boors, 
But such as gods have liv'd with and have 

led. 



THE HAMADRYAD 

BHAICOS was born amid the hills where- 

from 

Gnidos the light of Caria is discerned, 
And small are the white-crested that play 

near, 

And smaller onward are the purple waves. 
Thence festal choirs were visible, all crown'd 
With rose and myrtle if they were inborn ; 
[f from Pandion sprang they, on the coast 
Where stern Athene rais'd her citadel, 



UanDor 



Then olive was entwin'd with violets 
Cluster'd in bosses, regular and large ; 
For various men wore various coronals, 
But one was their devotion ; 't was to her 
Whose laws all follow, her whose smile 

withdraws 
The sword from Ares, thunderbolt from 

Zeus, 

And whom in his chill caves the mutable 
Of mind, Poseidon, the sea-king, reveres, 
And whom his brother, stubborn Dis, hath 

pray'd 

To turn in pity the averted cheek 
Of her he bore away, with promises, 
Nay, with loud oath before dread Styx it 
self, 

To give her daily more and sweeter flowers 

Thau he made drop from her on Enna's dell. 

Rhaicos was looking from his father's 

door 

At the long trains that hasten'd to the town 
From all the valleys, like bright rivulets 
Gurgling with gladness, wave outrunning 

wave, 

And thought it hard he might not also go 
And offer up one prayer, and press one 

hand, 
He knew not whose. The father call'd him 

in 
And said, " Son Rhaicos 1 those are idle 

games ; 

Long enough I have liv'd to find them so." 
And ere he ended, sigh'd ; as old men do 
Always, to think how idle such games are. 



DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



" I have not yet," thought Rhaicos in his 

heart, 
And wanted proof. 

" Suppose thou go and help 
Echion at the hill, to bark yon oak 
And lop its branches off, before we delve 
About the trunk and ply the root with axe : 
This we may do in winter." 

Rhaicos went ; 
For thence he could see farther, and see 

more 

Of those who hurried to the city-gate. 
Echion he found there, with naked arm 
Swart-hair'd, strong-sinew'd, and his eyes 

intent 
Upon the place where first the axe should 

fall: 

He held it upright. " There are bees about, 
Or wasps, or hornets," said the cautious eld, 
" Look sharp, O son of Thallinos ! " The 

youth 

Inclin'd his ear, afar, and warily, 
And cavern'd in his hand. He heard a buzz 
At first, and then the sound grew soft and 

clear, 

And then divided into what seem'd tune, 
And there were words upon it, plaintive 

words. 

He turn'd, and said, " Echion ! do not strike 
That tree : it must be hollow ; for some 

god 
Speaks from within. Come thyself near." 

Again 
Both turn'd toward it : and behold ! there 

sat 

Upon the moss below, with her two palms 
Pressing it, on each side, a maid in form. 
Downcast were her long eyelashes, and pale 
Her cheek, but never mountain-ash display'd 
Berries of color like her lip so pure, 
Nor were the anemones about her hair 
Soft, smooth, and wavering like the face 

beneath. 

" What dost thou here ? " Echion, half- 
afraid, 

Half-angry, cried. She lifted up her eyes, 
But nothing spake she. Rhaicos drew one 

step 

Backward, for fear came likewise over him, 
But not such fear : he panted, gasp'd, drew 

in 
His breath, and would have turn'd it into 

words, 
But could not into one. 

" O send away 



That sad old man ! " said she. The old man 

went 

Without a warning from his master's son, 
Glad to escape, for sorely he now fear'd, 
And the axe shone behind him in their eyes. 
Hamad. And wouldst thou too shed the 

most innocent 
Of blood ? No vow demands it ; no god 

wills 
The oak to bleed. 

Rhaicos. Who art thou ? whence ? why 

here ? 
And whither wouldst thou go ? Among: the 

rob'd 

In white or saffron, or the hue that most 
Resembles dawn or the clear sky, is none 
Array'd as thou art. What so beautiful 
As that gray robe which clings about thee 

close, 
Like moss to stones adhering, leaves to 

trees, 

Yet lets thy bosom rise and fall in turn, 
As, touch'd by zephyrs, fall and rise the 

boughs 

Of graceful platan by the river-side ? 
Hamad. Lovest thou well thy father's 

house ? 

Rhaicos. Indeed 

I love it, well I love it, yet would leave 
For thine, where'er it be, my father's house, 
With all the marks upon the door, that show 
My growth at every birthday since the third, 
And all the charms, o'erpowering evil eyes, 
My mother nail'd for me against my bed, 
And the Cydonian bow (which thou shalt 

see) 

Won in my race last spring from Eutychos. 
Hamad. Bethink thee what it is to leave 

a home 

Thou never yet hast left, one night, one day. 
Rhaicos. No, 't is not hard to leave it : 

't is not hard 

To leave, O maiden, that paternal home 
If there be one on earth whom we may love 
First, last, for ever ; one who says that she 
Will love for ever too. To say which word, 
Only to say it, surely is enough. 
It shows such kindness if 't were possible 
We at the moment think she would indeed. 
Hamad. Who taught thee all this folly at 

thy age ? 
Rhaicos. I have seen lovers and have 

learn'd to love. 

Hamad. But wilt thou spare the tree ? 
Rhaicos. My father wants 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 



The bark ; the tree may hold its place awhile. 
Hamad. Awhile ? thy father numbers 

then my days ? 

Rhaicos. Are there no others where the 
moss beneath 

Is quite as tufty ? Who would send thee 
forth 

Or ask thee why thou tarriest ? Is thy flock 

Anywhere near? 

Hamad. I have no flock : I kill 

Nothing that breathes, that stirs, that feels 
the air, 

The sun, the dew. Why should the beauti 
ful 

(And thou art beautiful) disturb the source 

Whence springs all beauty ? Hast thou 
never heard 

Of Hamadryads ? 

Rhaicos. Heard of them I have : 

Tell me some tale about them. May I sit 

Beside thy feet ? Art thou not tired ? The 
herbs 

Are very soft ; I will not come too nigh ; 

Do but sit there, nor tremble so, nor doubt. 

Stay, stay an instant : let me first explore 

If any acorn of last year be left 

Within it ; thy thin robe too ill protects 

Thy dainty limbs against the harm one small 

Acorn may do. Here 's none. ,A no ther day 

Trust me ; till then let me sit opposite. 
Hamad. I seat me ; be thou seated, and 

content. 

Rhaicos. O sight for gods ! ye men be 
low ! adore 

The Aphrodite ! Is she there below ? 

Or sits she here before me? as she sate 

Before the shepherd on those heights that 
shade 

The Hellespont, and brought his kindred 

woe. 

Hamad. Reverence the higher Powers ; 
nor deem amiss 

Of her who pleads to thee, and would re- 

p ft y 

A.sk not how much but very much. Rise 

not : 

No, Rhaicos, no ! Without the nuptial vow 
Love is unholy. Swear to me that none 
Of mortal maids shall ever taste thy kiss, 
Then take thou mine ; then take it, not 

before. 
Rhaicos. Hearken, all gods above ! O 

Aphrodite ! 

Here ! Let my vow be ratified ! 
But wilt thou come into my father's house? 



Hamad. Nay : and of mine I cannot give 

thee part. 

Rhaicos. Where is it ? 
Hamad. In this oak. 

Rhaicos. Ay ; now begins 

The tale of Hamadryad : tell it through. 
Hamad. Pray of thy father never to cut 

down 
My tree ; and promise him, as well thou 

mayst, 

That every year he shall receive from me 
More honey than will buy him nine fat sheep, 
More wax than he will burn to all the gods. 
Why fallest thou upon thy face ? home 

thorn 
May scratch it, rash young man ! Rise up ; 

for shame ! 
Rhaicos. For shame I cannot rise. O pity 

me ! 

I dare not sue for love but do not hate ! 
Let me once more behold thee not once 

more, 

But many days : let me love on unlov'd ! 
I aim'd too high : on my own head the bolt 
Falls back, and pierces to the very brain. 
Hamad. Go rather go, than make me 

say I love. 

Rhaicos. If happiness is immortality, 
(And whence enjoy it else the gods above ?) 
I am immortal too : my vow is heard 
Hark ! on the left Nay, turn not from me 

now, 
I claim my kiss. 

Hamad. Do men take first, then claim ? 
Do thus the seasons run their course with 
them? 

Her lips were seal'd ; her head sank on 

his breast. 
'T is said that laughs were heard within the 

wood : 
But who should hear them? and whose 

laughs ? and why ? 

Savory was the smell and long past noon, 
Thallinos ! in thy house ; for marjoram, 
Basil and mint, and thyme and rosemary, 
Were sprinkled on the kid's well roasted 

length, 

Awaiting Rhaicos. Home he came at last, 
Not hungry, but pretending hunger keen, 
With head and eyes just o'er the maple 

plate. 
"Thou see'stbut badly, coming from the 

sun, 



DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



Boy Rhaicos!" said the father. "That 

oak's bark 

Must have been tough, with little sap be 
tween ; 

It ought to run ; but it and I are old." 
Rhaicos, although each morsel of the bread 
Increas'd by chewing, and the meat grew 

cold 

And tasteless to his palate, took a draught 
Of gold-bright wine, which, thirsty as he 

was, 

He thought not of, until his father filPd 
The cup, averring water was amiss, 
But wine had been at all times pour'd on kid. 
It was religion. 

He thus fortified 

Said, not quite boldly, and not quite abash'd, 
" Father, that oak is Zeus's own ; that oak 
Year after year will bring thee wealth from 

wax 
And honey. There is one who fears the 



And the gods love that one " 

(He blush'd, nor said 
What one) 

" Has promis'd this, and may do more. 
Thou hast not many moons to wait until 
The bees have done their best ; if then 

there come 

Nor wax nor honey, let the tree be hewn." 
" Zeus hath bestow'd on thee a prudent 

mind," 
Said the glad sire : " but look thou often 

there, 

And gather all the honey thou canst find 
In every crevice, over and above 
What has been promis'd ; would they reckon 

that?" 

Rhaicos went daily ; but the nymph as oft, 
Invisible. To play at love, she knew, 
Stopping its breathings when it breathes 

most soft, 

Is sweeter than to play on any pipe. 
She play'd on his : she fed upon his sighs ; 
They pleas'd her when they gently wav'd 

her hair, 

Cooling the pulses of her purple veins, 
And when her absence brought them out, 

they pleas'd. 

Even among the fondest of them all, 
What mortal or immortal maid is more 
Content with giving happiness than pain ? 
One day he was returning from the wood 
Despondently. She pitied him, and said 



" Come back ! " and twin'd her fingers in 

the hem 

Above his shoulder. Then she led his steps 
To a cool rill that ran o'er level sand 
Through lentiskand through oleander; there 
Bath'd she his feet, lifting them on her lap 
When bath'd, and drying them in both her 

hands. 
He dar'd complain ; for those who most are 

lov'd 

Most dare it ; but not harsh was his com 
plaint. 

" O thou inconstant ! " said he, " if stern law 
Bind thee, or will, stronger than sternest 

law, 

O, let me know henceforward when to hope 
The fruit of love that grows for me but 

here." 
He spake ; and pluck'd it from its pliant 

stem. 

" Impatient Rhaicos ! Why thus intercept 
The answer I would give ? There is a bee 
Whom I have fed, a bee who knows my 

thoughts 

And executes my wishes : I will send 
That messenger. If ever thou art false, 
Drawn by another, own it not, but drive 
My bee away : then shall I know my fate, 
And for thou must be wretched weep 

at thine. 

But often as my heart persuades to lay 
Its cares on thine and throb itself to rest, 
Expect her with thee, whether it be morn 
Or eve, at any time when woods are safe." 

Day after day the Hours beheld them 

blest, 

And season after season : years had past, 
Blest were they still. He who asserts that 

Love 

Ever is sated of sweet things, the same 
Sweet things he fretted for in earlier days, 
Never, by Zeus ! lov'd he a Hamadryad. 

The nights had now grown longer, and 

perhaps 

The Hamadryads find them lone and dull 
Among their woods ; one did, alas ! She 

call'd 
Her faithful bee : 't was when all bees 

should sleep, 
.And all did sleep but hers. She was sent 

forth 

To bring that light which never wintry blast 
Blows out, nor rain nor snow extinguishes, 
The light that shines from loving eyes upon 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 



Eyes that love back, till they can see no 

more. 

Rhaicos was sitting at his father's hearth : 
Between them stood the table, not o'er- 

spread 
With fruits which autumn now profusely 

bore, 
Nor anise cakes, nor odorous wine ; but 

there 
The draft-board was expanded ; at which 

game 

Triumphant sat old Thallinos ; the son 
Was puzzled, vex'd, discomfited, distraught. 
A buzz was at his ear : up went his hand 
And it was heard no longer. The poor bee 
Return'd (but not until the morn shone 

bright) 

And found the Hamadryad with her head 
Upon her aching wrist, and show'd one wing 
Half-broken off, the other's meshes marr'd, 
And there were bruises which no eye could 

see 
Saving a Hamadryad's. 

At this sight 
Down fell the languid brow, both hands fell 

down, 

A shriek w'as carried to the ancient hall 
Of Thallinos : he heard it not : his son 
Heard it, and ran forthwith into the wood. 
No bark was on the tree, no leaf was green, 
The trunk was riven through. From that 

day forth 
Nor word nor whisper sooth'd his ear, nor 

sound 

Even of insect wing ; but loud laments 
The woodmen and the shepherds one long 

year 
Heard day and night ; for Rhaicos would 

not quit 
The solitary place, but moan'd and died. 

Hence milk and honey wonder not, O guest, 
To find set duly on the hollow stone. 



THE DEATH OF ARTEMIDORA 

" ARTEMIDORA ! Gods invisible, 
While thou art lying faint along the couch, 
Have tied the sandal to thy veined feet, 
And stand beside thee, ready to convey 
Thy weary steps where other rivers flow. 
Refreshing shades will waft thy weariness 
Away, and voices like thine own c.ome nigh, 
Soliciting, nor vainly, thy embrace." 



Artemidora sigh 'd, and would have press'd 
The hand now pressing hers, but was too 

weak. 

Fate's shears were over her dark hair un 
seen 

While thus Elpcnor spake : he look'd into 
Eyes that had given light and life erewhile 
To those above them, those now dim with 

tears 

And watchfulness. Again he spake of joy, 
Eternal. At that word, that sad word, joy, 
Faithful and fond her bosom heav'd once 

more, 
Her head fell back : one sob, one loud deep 

sob 
Swell'd through the darken'd chamber ; 

't was not hers : 

With her that old boat incorruptible, 
Unwearied, undiverted in its course, 
Had plash'd the water up the farther strand. 

FROM "MYRTIS" 

FRIENDS, whom she look'd at blandly from 

her couch 

And her white wrist above it, gem-bedew'd, 
Were arguing with Pentheusa : she had 

heard 

Report of Creon's death, whom years before 
She listeu'd to, well-pleas'd ; and sighs 

arose ; 

For sighs full often fondle with reproofs 
And will be fondled by them. When I 

came 

After the rest to visit her, she said, 
" Myrtis ! how kind ! Who better knows 

than thou 
The panes of love ? and my first love was 

h?!" 

Tell me (if ever, Eros ! are re veal 'd 
Thy secrets to the earth) have they been 

true 

To any love who speak about the first ? 
What 1 shall these holier lights, like twin 

kling stars 
In the few hours assign'd them, change 

their place, 

And, when comes ampler splendor, disap 
pear ? 

Idler I am, and pardon, not reply, 
Implore from thee, thus question'd ; well 

I know 
Thou strikest, like Olympian Jove, but 

once. 



DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



LITTLE AGLAE 

TO HER FATHER, ON HER STATUE BEING 
CALLED LIKE 'HER 

FATHER ! the little girl we see 

Is not, I fancy, so like me ; 

You never hold her on your knee. 

When she came home, the other day, 
You kiss'd her ; but I cannot say 
She kiss'd you first and ran away. 



TO A CYCLAMEN 

f COME to visit thee agen, 
My little flowerless cyclamen ; 
To touch the hand, almost to press, 
That cheer'd thee in thy loneliness. 
What could thy careful guardian find 
Of thee in form, of me in mind, 
What is there in us rich or rare, 
To make us claim a moment's care ? 
Unworthy to be so carest, 
We are but withering leaves at best. 



DIRCE 

STAND close around, ye Stygian set, 
With Dirce in one boat convey'd, 

Or Charon, seeing, may forget 
That he is old, and she a shade. 



AN INVOCATION 

WE are what suns and winds and waters 

make us ; 
The mountains are our sponsors, and the 

rills 
Fashion and win their nursling with their 

smiles. 

But where the land is dim from tyranny, 
There tiny pleasures occupy the place 
Of glories and of duties ; as the feet 
Of fabled faeries when the sun goes down 
Trip o'er the grass where wrestlers strove 

by day. 

Then Justice, call'd the Eternal One above, 
Is more inconstant than the buoyant form 
That burst into existence from the froth 
Of ever-varying ocean : what is best 



Then becomes worst ; what loveliest, most 

deform'd. 

The heart is hardest in the softest climes, 
The passions flourish, the affections die. 
O thou vast tablet of these awful truths, 
That fillest all the space between the seas, 
Spreading from Venice's deserted courts 
To the Tarentine and Hydruntine mole, 
What lifts thee up ? what shakes thee ? 'tis 

the breath 

Of God. Awake, ye nations ! spring to life ! 
Let the last work of his right hand appear 
Fresh with his image, Man. 



FROM "GEBIR" 

TAMAR AND THE NYMPH 

" 'T WAS evening, though not sunset, and 

the tide, 
Level with these green meadows, seem'd 

yet higher : 
'Twas pleasant, and I loosen'd from my 

neck 
The pipe you gave me, and began to play. 

that I ne'er had learn'd the tuneful 

art ! 

It always brings us enemies or love. 
Well, I was playing, when above the waves 
Some swimmer's head methought I saw 

ascend ; 

I, sitting still, survey'd it with my pipe 
Awkwardly held before my lips half-clos'd. 
Gebir ! it was a Nymph ! a Nymph divine J 

1 cannot wait describing how she came, 
How I was sitting, how she first assum'd 
The sailor ; of what happen 'd there remains 
Enough to say, and too much to forget. 
The sweet deceiver stepp'd upon this bank 
Before I was aware ; for with surprise 
Moments fly rapid as with love itself. 
Stooping to tune afresh the hoarsen'd reed, 
I heard a rustling, and where that arose 
My glance first lighted on her nimble feet. 
Her feet resembled those long shells ex- 

plor'd 

By him who to befriend his steed's dim sight 
Would blow the pungent powder in the eye. 
Her eyes too ! O immortal gods ! her eyes 
Resembled what could they resemble ? 

what 

Ever resemble those ? Even her attire 
Was not of wonted woof nor vulgar art : 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 



Her mantle show'd the yellow samphire- 
pod, 

Her girdle the dove-color'd wave serene. 
' Shepherd,' said she, * and will you wrestle 

now 

And with the sailor's hardier race engage ? ' 
I was rejoiced to hear it, and contriv'd 
How to keep up contention : could I fail 
By pressing not too strongly, yet to press ? 
' Whether a shepherd, as indeed you seem, 
Or whether of the hardier race you boast, 
I am not daunted ; no ; I will engage.' 
But first,' said she, ' what wager will you 

lay?' 
< A sheep,' I answered : add whate'er you 

will.' 

* I cannot,' she replied, ' make that return : 
Our hided vessels in their pitchy round 
Seldom, unless from rapine, hold a sheep. 
But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue 
Within, and they that lustre have imbib'd 
In the sun's palace-porch, where when un- 

yok'd 
His chariot-wheel stands midway in the 

wave : 

Shake one and it awakens, then apply 
Its polish'd lips to your attentive ear, 
And it remembers its august abodes, 
And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there. 
And I have others given me by the nymphs, 
Of sweeter sound than any pipe you have : 
But we, by Neptune ! for no pipe contend ; 
This time a sheep I win, a pipe the next.' 
Now came she forward eager to engage, 
But first her dress, her bosom then survey'd 
And heav'd it, doubting if she could deceive. 
Her bosom seem'd, inclos'd in haze like 

heaven, 

To baffle touch, and rose forth undefin'd ; 
Above her knee she drew the robe succinct, 
Above her breast, and just below her arms. 
1 This will preserve my breath when tightly 

bound, 
If struggle and equal strength should so 

constrain.' 

Thus, pulling hard to fasten it, she spake, 
And, rushing at me, clos'd : I thrill'd 

throughout 
And seem'd to lessen and shrink up with 

cold. 

Again with violent impulse gush'd my blood, 
And hearing nought external, thus absorb'd, 
I heard it, rushing through each turbid vein, 
Shake my unsteady swimming sight in air. 
Yet with unyielding though uncertain arms 



I clung around her neck ; the vest beneath 
Rustled against our slippery limbs entwin'd: 
Often mine springing with eluded force 
Started aside and trembled till replaced : 
And when I most succeeded, as I thought, 
My bosom and my throat felt so compress'd 
That life was almost quivering on my lips. 
Yet nothing was there painful : these are 

signs 

Of secret arts and not of human might ; 
What arts I cannot tell ; I only know 
My eyes grew dizzy and my strength 

decay'd ; 

I was indeed o'ercome with what regret, 
And more, with what confusion, when I 

reach'd 
The fold, and yielding up the sheep, she 

cried, 
' This pays a shepherd to a conquering 

maid.' 

She smil'd, and more of pleasure than dis 
dain 

Was in her dimpled chin and liberal lip, 
And eyes that languished, lengthening, just 

like love. 

She went away ; I on the wicker gate 
Leant, and could follow with my eyet 

alone 

The sheep she carried easy as a cloak ; 
But when I heard its bleating, as I did, 
And saw, she hastening on, its hinder feet 
Struggle, and from her snowy shoulder slip, 
One shoulder its poor efforts had unveil'd, 
Then all my passions mingling fell in tears ; 
Restless then ran I to the highest ground 
To watch her ; she was gone ; gone down 

the tide ; 
And the long moonbeam on the hard wet 

sand 
Lay like a jasper column half uprear'd." 



TO YOUTH 

WHERE art thou gone, light-ankled Youth ? 

With wing at either shoulder, 
And smile that never left thy mouth 

Until the Hours grew colder : 

Then somewhat seem'd to whisper near 

That thou and I must part ; 
I doubted it ; I felt no fear, 

No weight upon the heart. 



10 



DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



If aught befell it, Love was by 

And roll'd it off again ; 
So, if there ever was a sigh, 

'T was not a sigh of pain. 

I may not call thee back ; but thou 
Returnest when the hand 

Of gentle Sleep waves o'er my brow 
His poppy-crested wand ; 

Then smiling eyes bend over mine, 
Then lips once press'd invite ; 

But sleep hath given a silent sign, 
And both, alas ! take flight. 



TO AGE 

WELCOME, old friend ! These many years 

Have we liv'd door by door : 
The Fates have laid aside their shears 

Perhaps for some few more. 

I was indocile at an age 

When better boys were taught, 

But thou at length hast made me sage, 
If I am sage in aught. 

Little I know from other men, 

Too little they from me, 
But thou hast pointed well the pen 

That writes these lines to thee. 

Thanks for. expelling Fear and Hope, 

One vile, the other vain ; 
One's scourge, the other's telescope, 

I shall not see again : 

Rather what lies before my feet 

My notice shall engage. 
He who hath brav'd Youth's dizzy heat 

Dreads not the frost of Age. 



ROSE AYLMER 

AH what avails the sceptred race, 

Ah what the form divine ! 
What every virtue, every grace ! 

Rose Aylmer, all were thine. 
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes 

May weep, but never see, 
A night of memories and of sighs 

I consecrate to thee. 



ROSE AYLMER'S HAIR, GIVEN 
BY HER SISTER 

BEAUTIFUL spoils ! borne off from van- 
quish'd death ! 

Upon my heart's high altar shall ye lie, 
Mov'd but by only one adorer's breath, 

Retaining youth, rewarding constancy. 



CHILD OF A DAY 

CHILD of a day, thou knowest not 

The tears that overflow thine urn, 
The gushing eyes that read thy lot, 

Nor, if thou knewest, couldst return. 
And why the wish ! the pure and blest 

Watch like thy mother o'er thy sleep. 
O peaceful night ! O envied rest ! 

Thou wilt not ever see her weep. 



FIESOLAN IDYL 

HERE, where precipitate Spring with one 

light bound 

Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires, 
And where go forth at morn, at eve, at 

night, 

Soft airs that want the lute to play with 'em, 
And softer sighs that know not what they 

want, 

Aside a wall, beneath an orange-tree, 
Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier 

ones 

Of sights in Fiesole right up above, 
While I was gazing a few paces off 
At what they seem'd to show me with their 

nods, 
Their frequent whispers and their pointing 

shoots, 

A gentle maid came down the garden-steps 
And gather'd the pure treasure in her lap. 
I heard the branches rustle, and stepp'd 

forth 

To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat, 
Such I believ'd it must be. How could I 
Let beast o'erpower them ? when hath wind 

or rain 
Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted 

me, 
And I (however they might bluster round) 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 



ii 



Walk'd off ? 'T were most ungrateful : for 

sweet scents 
Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter 

thoughts, 

And nurse and pillow the dull memory 
That would let drop without them her best 

stores. 
They bring me tales of youth and tones of 

love, 

\nd ? t is and ever was my wish and way 
To let all flowers live freely, and all die 
(Whene'er their Genius bids their souls 

depart) 

Among their kindred in their native place. 
I never pluck the rose ; the violet's head 
Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank 
And not reproach'd me ; the ever-sacred 

cup 

Of the pure lily hath between my hands 
Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold. 
I saw the light that made the glossy leaves 
More glossy ; the fair arm, the fairer cheek 
Wann'd by the eye intent on its pursuit ; 
I saw the foot that, although half-erect 
From its gray slipper, could not lift her up 
To what she wanted : I held down a branch 
And gather'd her some blossoms ; since 

their hour 
Was come, and bees had wounded them, 

and flies 
Of harder wing were working their way 

through 
And scattering them in fragments under 

foot. 

So crisp were some, they rattled unevolv'd, 
Others, ere broken off, fell into shells, 
Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow, 
And like snow not seen through, by eye or 

sun : 

Yet every one her gown receiv'd from me 
Was fairer than the first. I thought not so, 
But so she prais'd them to reward my care. 
I said, " You find the largest." 

" This indeed," 
Cried she, " is large and sweet." She held 

one forth, 

Whether for me to look at or to take 
She knew not, nor did I ; but taking it 
Would best have solv'd (and this she felt) 

her doubt. 

I dar'd not touch it ; for it seem'd a part 
Of her own self ; fresh, full, the most 

mature 

Of blossoms, yet a blossom ; with a touch 
To fall, and yet unfallen. She drew back 



The boon she tendered, and then, finding not 
The ribbon at her waist to fix it in, 
Dropp'd it, as loth to drop it, on the rest. 

FAREWELL TO ITALY 

I LEAVE thee, beauteous Italy ! no more 
From the high terraces, at even-tide, 
To look supine into thy depths of sky, 
Thy golden moon between the cliff and me, 
Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses 
Bordering the channel of the milky way. 
Fiesole and Valdarno must be dreams 
Hereafter, and my own lost Affrico 
Murmur to me but in the poet's song. 
I did believe (what have I not believ'd?), 
Weary with age, but unoppress'd by pain, 
To close in thy soft clime my quiet day 
And rest my bones in the mimosa's shade. 
Hope ! Hope ! few ever cherish'd thee so 

little ; 

Few are the heads thou hast so rarely rais'd ; 
But thou didst promise this, and all was 

well. 

For we are fond of thinking where to lie 
When every pulse hath ceas'd, when the 

lone heart 

Can lift no aspiration reasoning 
As if the sight were unimpair'd by death, 
Were unobstructed by the coffin-lid, 
And the sun cheer'd corruption ! Over all 
The smiles of Nature shed a potent charm, 
And light us to our chamber at the grave. 



THE MAID'S LAMENT 

ELIZABETHAN 

I LOV'D him not ; and yet now he is gone 

I feel I am alone. 

I check'd him while he spoke ; yet could 
he speak, 

Alas ! I would not check. 
For reasons not to love him once I sought, 

And wearied all my thought 
To vex myself and him : I now would give 

My love, could he but live 
Who lately liv'd for me, and when he found 

'T was vain, in holy ground 
He hid his face amid the shades of death, 

I waste for him my breath 



12 



DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



Who wasted his for me ; but mine returns, 

And this lone bosom burns 
With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep 

And waking me to weep 
Tears that had melted his soft heart : for 
years 

Wept he as bitter tears. 
Merciful God ! such was his latest prayer, 

These may she never share ! 
Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold, 

Than daisies in the mould, 
Where children spell, athwart the church 
yard gate, 

His name and life's brief date. 
Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be, 

And oh ! pray too for me ! 



MARGARET 

MOTHER, I cannot mind my wheel ; 
My fingers ache, my lips are dry ;' 
Oh, if you felt the pain I feel ! 
But oh, who ever felt as I ! 
No longer could I doubt him true, 
All other men may use deceit ; 
He always said my eyes were blue, 
And often swore my lips were sweet. 



ON MUSIC 

MANY love music but for music's sake ; 
Many because her touches can awake 
Thoughts that repose within the breast half 

dead, 

And rise to follow where she loves to lead. 
What various feelings come from days 

gone by ! 
What tears from far-off sources dim the 

eye ! 
Few, when light fingers with sweet voices 



And melodies swell, pause, and melt 

away, 

Mind how at every touch, at every tone, 
A spark of life hath glisten'd and hath gone. 



PLAYS 

ALAS, how soon the hours are over 
Counted us out to play the lover ! 
And how much narrower is the stage 
Allotted us to play the sage 1 



But when we play the fool, how wide 
The theatre expands ! beside, 
How long the audience sits before us ! 
How many prompters ! what a chorus ! 



THERE FALLS WITH EVERY 
WEDDING CHIME 

THERE falls with every wedding chime 
A feather from the wing of Time. 
You pick it up, and say " How fair 
To look upon its colors are ! " 
Another drops day after day 
Unheeded ; not one word you say. 
When bright and dusky are blown past, 
Upon the hearse there nods the last. 



SHAKESPEARE AND MILTON 

THE tongue of England, that which myriads 
Have spoken and will speak, were paralyz'd 
Hereafter, but two mighty men stand 

forth 

Above the flight of ages, two alone ; 
One crying out, 

All nations spoke through me. 
The other : 

True and through this trumpet burst 
God's word ; the fall of Angels, and the 

doom 

First of immortal, then of mortal, Man. 
Glory ! be glory ! not to me, to God. 



MACAULAY 

THE dreamy rhymer's measur'd snore 
Falls heavy on our ears no more ; 
And by long strides are left behind 
The dear delights of woman-kind, 
Who win their battles like their loves, 
In satin waistcoats and kid gloves, 
And have achiev'd the crowning work 
When they have truss'd and skewer'd a 

Turk. 

Another comes with stouter tread, 
And stalks among the statelier dead. 
He rushes on, and hails by turns 
High-crested Scott, broad-breasted Burns, 
And shows the British youth, who ne'er 
Will lag behind, what Romans were, 
When all the Tuscans and their Lars 
Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars. 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 



ROBERT BROWNING 

THERE is delight in singing, though none 

hear 

Beside the singer ; and there is delight 
In praising, though the praiser sit alone 
And see the prais'd far off him, far ahove. 
Shakspeare is not our poet, but the world's, 
Therefore on him no speech ! and brief for 

thee, 
Browning ! Since Chaucer was alive and 

hale, 
No man hath walk'd along our roads with 

step 

So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue 
So varied in discourse. But warmer climes 
Give brighter plumage, stronger wing : the 

breeze 
Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne 

on 

Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where 
The Siren waits thee, singing song for song. 



ON THE DEATH OF M. D'OSSOLI 
AND, HIS WIFE MARGARET 
FULLER 

OVER his millions Death has lawful power, 
But over thee, brave D'Ossoli ! none, none. 
After a longer struggle, in a fight 
Worthy of Italy, to youth restor'd, 
Thou, far from home, art sunk beneath the 

surge 

Of the Atlantic ; on its. shore ; in reach 
Of help ; in trust of refuge ; sunk with 

all 
Precious on earth to thee ... a child, a 

wife! 

Proud as thou wert of her, America 
Is prouder, showing to her sons how high 
Swells woman's courage in a virtuous 

breast. 
She would not leave behind her those she 

lov'd : 

Such solitary safety might become 
Others ; not her ; not her who stood beside 
The pallet of the wounded, when the worst 
Of France and Perfidy assaiFd the walls 
Of unsuspicious Rome. Rest, glorious soul, 
Renown'd for strength of genius, Margaret ! 
Rest with the twain too dear ! My words 

are few, 
And shortly none will hear my failing voice, 



But the same language with more full ap 
peal 

Shall hail thee. Many are the sons of song 

Whom thou hast heard upon thy native 
plains 

Worthy to sing of thee : the hour is come ; 

Take we our seats and let the dirge begin. 



TO IANTHE 

You smil'd, you spoke, and I believ'd, 
By every word and smile deceiv'd. 
Another man would hope no more ; 
Nor hope I what I hop'd before : 
But let not this last wish be vain ; 
Deceive, deceive me once again i 

'"'". lANTHE'S TROUBLES 

YOUR pleasures spring like daisies in the 

grass, 
Cut down and up again as blithe as 

ever ; 

From you, lanthe, little troubles pass 
Like little ripples in a sunny river. 

THE APPEAL 

REMAIN, ah not in youth alone, 

Though youth, where you are, long will 

stay, 
But when my summer days are gone, 

And my autumnal haste away. 

" Can I be always by your side ? " 

No ; but the hours you can, you must, 
Nor rise at Death's approaching stride, 

Nor go when dust is gone to dust. 

THE TEST 

I HELD her hand, the pledge of bliss, 

Her hand that trembled and withdrew ; 
She -bent her head before my kiss . . . 

My heart was sure that hers was true. 
Now I have told her I must part, 

She shakes my hand, she bids adieu, 
Nor shuns the kiss. Alas, my heart I 

Hers never was the heart for you. 



DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



IN AFTER TIME 

No, my own love of other years ! 

No, it must never be. 
Much rests with you that yet endears, 

Alas ! but what with me ? 
Could those bright years o'er me revolve 

So gay, o'er you so fair, 
The pearl of life we would dissolve 

And each the cup might share. 
You show that truth can ne'er decay, 

Whatever fate befalls ; 
I, that the myrtle and the bay 

Shoot fresh on ruin'd walls. 



A PROPHECY 

PROUD word you never spoke, but you will 

speak 
Four not exempt from pride some future 

day. 
Resting on one white hand a warm wet 

cheek, 

Over my open volume you will say, 
"This nran loved me!" then rise and 
trip away. 



COWSLIPS 

WITH rosy hand a little girl press'd down 
A boss of fresh-cull'd cowslips in a rill : 
Often as they sprang up again, a frown 
Show'd she dislik'd resistance to her will : 
But when they droop'd their heads and 

shone much less, 
She shook them to and fro, and threw them 

by, 

And tripp'd away. " Ye loathe the heavi 
ness 

Ye love to cause, my little girls ! " thought I, 
"And what has shone for you, by you must 
die!" 



WRINKLES 

WHEN Helen first saw wrinkles in her-face 
('Twas when some fifty long had settled 

there 

And intermarried and branch'd off awide) 
She threw herself upon her couch and wept : 
On this side hung her head, and over that 



Listlessly she let fall the faithless brass 
That made the men as faithless. 

But when you 
Found them, or fancied them, and would 

not hear 

That they were only vestiges of smiles, 
Or the impression of some amorous hair 
Astray from cloister'd curls and roseate 

band, 
Which had been lying there all night per 

haps 

Upon a skin so soft, " No, no," you said, 
" Sure, they are coming, yes, are come, are 

here : 
Well, and what matters it, while thou art 

too ! " 

ADVICE 

To write as your sweet mother does 

Is all you wish to do. 
Play, sing, and smile for others, Rose ! 

Let others write for you. 

Or mount again your Dartmoor grey, 

And I will walk beside, 
Until we reach that quiet bay . 

Which only hears the tide. 

Then wave at me your pencil, then 
At distance bid me stand, 

Before the cavern'd cliff, again 
The creature of your hand. 

And bid me then go past the nook 
To sketch me less in size ; 

There are but few content to look 
So little in your eyes. 

Delight us with the gifts you have, 
And wish for none beyond : 

To some be gay, to some be grave, 
To one (blest youth !) be fond. 

Pleasures there are how close to Pain, 

And better unpossest ! 
Let poetry's too throbbing vein 

Lie quiet in your breast. 

HOW TO READ ME 

To turn my volumes o'er nor find 
(Sweet unsuspicious friend !) 

Some vestige of an erring mind 
To chide or discommend, 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 






Believe that all were lov'd like you 
With love from blame exempt, 

Believe that all my griefs were true 
And all my joys but dreamt. 



TIME TO BE WISE 

YES ; I write verses now and then, 
But blunt and flaccid is my pen, 
No longer talk'd of by young men 

As rather clever ; 
In the last quarter are my eyes, 
You see it by their form and size ; 
Is it not time then to be wise ? 

Or now or never. 

Fairest that ever sprang from Eve ! 
While Time allows the short reprieve, 
Just look at me ! would you believe 

'T was once a lover ? 
I cannot clear the five-bar gate ; 
But, trying first its timber's state, 
Climb stiffly up, take breath, and wait 

To trundle over. 

Through gallopade I cannot swing 

The entangling blooms of Beauty's spring 

I cannot say the tender thing, 

Be 't true or false, 
And am beginning to opine 
Those girls are only half divine 
Whose waists yon wicked boys entwine 

In giddy waltz. 

I fear that arm above that shoulder ; 
I wish them wiser, graver, older, 
Sedater, and no harm if colder, 

And panting less. 
Ah ! people were not half so wild 
In former days, when, starchly mild, 
Upon her high-heel'd Essex smil'd 

The brave Queen Bess. 



THE ONE WHITE HAIR 

THE wisest of the wise 
Listen to pretty lies 

And love to hear them told ; 
Doubt not that Solomon 
Listen'd to many a one, 
Some in his youth, and more when he grew 
old. 



I never was among 

The choir of Wisdom's song, 



But pretty lies lov'd I 
As much as any king, 
When youth was on the wing, 
And (must it then be told ?) when youth 
had quite gone by. 

Alas ! and I have not 
The pleasant hour forgot 

When one pert lady said, 
" O Walter ! I am quite 
Bewilder'd with affright ! 
I see (sit quiet now) a white hair on your 
head!" 

Another more benign 
Snipp'd it away from mine, 
And in her own dark hair 
Pretended it was found . . . 
She leap'd, and twirl'd it round . . . 
Fair as she was, she never was so fair ! 



ON HIMSELF 

I STROVE with none, for none was worth my 

strife ; 

Nature I lov'd, and next to Nature, Art ; 
I warm'd both hands before the fire of 

life; 
It sinks, and I am ready to depart. 



ON LUCRETIA BORGIA'S HAIR 

BORGIA, thou once wert almost too august 

And high for adoration ; now thou 'rt 
dust; 

All that remains of thee these plaits un 
fold, 

Calm hair meandering in pellucid gold. 



PERSISTENCE 

MX hopes retire ; my wishes as before 
Struggle to find their resting-place in 

vain : 
The ebbing sea thus beats against the 

shore ; 
The shore repels it ; it returns again. 



i6 



DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



MAN 

IN his own image the Creator made, 

His own pure sunbeam quicken'd thee, O 

man ! 

Thou breathing dial ! since thy day began 
The present hour was ever inark'd with 
shade ! 

TO SLEEP 

COME, Sleep ! but mind ye ! if you come 

without 

The little girl that struck me at the rout, 
By Jove ! I would not give you half-a-crown 
For all your poppy-heads and all your down. 



ON LIVING TOO LONG 

Is it not better at an early hour 

In its calm cell to rest the weary head, 

While birds are singing and while blooms 

the bower, 
Than sit the fire out and go starv'd to bed? 



A THOUGHT 

BLYTHE bell, that calls to bridal halls, 

Tolls deep a darker day ; 
The very shower that feeds the flower 

Weeps also its decay. 



HEARTSEASE 

THERE is a flower I wish to wear, 
But not until first worn by you 

Heartsease of all earth's flowers most 

rare ; 
Bring it ; and bring enough for two. 



VERSES WHY BURNT 

How many verses have I thrown 
Into the fire because the one 
Peculiar word, the wanted most, 
Was irrecoverably lost ! 



DEATH UNDREADED 

DEATH stands above me, whispering low 
I know not what into my ear : 

Of his strange language all I know 
Is, there is not a word of fear. 



MEMORY 

THE Mother of the Muses, we are taught, 
Is Memory : she has left me ; they remain, 
And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing 
About the summer days, my loves of old. 
Alas ! alas I is all I can reply. 
Memory has left with me that name alone, 
Harmonious name, which other bards may 

sing, 

But her bright image in my darkest hour 
Comes back, in vain comes back, call'd or 

uncall'd. 

Forgotten are the names of visitors 
Ready to press my hand but yesterday ; 
Forgotten are the names of earlier friends 
Whose genial converse and glad counte 
nance 

Are fresh as ever to mine ear and eye ; 
To these, when I have written and besought 
Remembrance of me, the word Dear alone 
Hangs on the upper verge, and waits in 

vain. 

A blessing wert thou, O oblivion, 
If thy stream carried only weeds away, 
But vernal and autumnal flowers alike 
It hurries down to wither on the strand. 



FOR AN EPITAPH AT FIESOLE 

Lo ! where the four mimosas blend their 

shade 

In calm repose at last is Landor laid ; 
For ere he slept he saw them planted 

here 

By her his soul had ever held most dear, 
And he had liv'd enough when he had 

dried her tear. 



DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



<5corgc SDariep 



THE FLOWER OF BEAUTY 

SWEET in her green dell the flower of 

beauty slumbers, 
LulFd by the faint breezes sighing 

through her hair ; 
Sleeps she, and hears not the melancholy 

numbers 

Breath'd to my sad lute amid the lonely 
air. 

Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is 

teeming, 
To wind round the willow-banks that lure 

him from above ; 
that, in tears from my rocky prison 

streaming, 
I, too, could glide to the bower of my love ! 

Ah, where the woodbines with sleepy arms 

have wound her, 
Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my 

lay, 
Listening, like the dove, while the fountains 

echo round her, 

To her lost mate's call in the forests far 
away. 

Come, then, my bird ! for the peace thou 

ever bearest, 
Still Heaven's messenger of comfort to 

me ; 
Come ! this fond bosom, my faithfullest, 

my fairest, 

Bleeds with its death- wound - but deeper 
yet for thee. 

SUMMER WINDS 

UP the dale and down the bourne, 
O'er the meadow swift we fly ; 

Now we sing, and now we mourn, 
Now we whistle, now we sigh. 

By the grassy-fringed river 

Through the murmuring reeds we sweep, 
Mid the lily-leaves we quiver, 

To their very hearts we creep. 

Now the maiden rose is blushing 
At the frolic things we say, 



While aside her cheek we f re rushing, 
Like some truant bees at play. 

Through the blooming groves we rustle, 

Kissing every bud we pass, 
As we did it in the bustle, 

Scarcely knowing how it was. 

Down the glen, across the mountain, 
O'er the yellow heath we roam, 

Whirling round about the fountain 
Till its little breakers foam. 

Bending down the weeping willows, 
While our vesper hymn we sigh ; 

Then unto our rosy pillows 
On our weary wings we hie. 

There of idlenesses dreaming, 
Scarce from waking we refrain, 

Moments long as ages deeming 
Till we 're at our play again. 

SONGS FROM "SYLVIA; OR, THE 
MAY QUEEN" 



CHORUS OF SPIRITS 

GENTLY ! gently ! down ! down ! 

From the starry courts on high, 
Gently step adown, down 

The ladder of the sky. 

Sunbeam steps are strong enough 

For such airy feet : 
Spirits, blow your trumpets rough, 

So as they be sweet ! 

Breathe them loud, the Queen descending 
Yet a lowly welcome breathe, 

Like so many flowerets bending 
Zephyr's breezy foot beneath. 

II 
MORNING-SONG 

AWAKE thee, my Lady-love ! 

Wake thee, and rise ! 
The sun through the bower peeps 

Into thine eyes 1 



i8 



DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



Behold how the early lark 

Springs from the corn ! 
Hark, hark how the flower-bird 

Winds her wee horn ! 

The swallow's glad shriek is heard 

All through the air ; 
The stock-dove is murmuring 

Loud as she dare. 

Apollo's wing'd bugleman 

Cannot contain, 
But peals his loud trumpet-call 

Once and again. 

Then wake thee, my Lady-love ! 

Bird of my bower ! 
The sweetest and sleepiest 

Bird at this hour 1 



LADY and 
No pedlar 



III 
NEPHON'S SONG 

ntlemen fays, come buy ! 
s such a rich packet as I. 



Who wants a gown 

Of purple fold, 
Embroider'd down 
The seams with gold ? 

See here ! a Tulip richly laced 
To please a royal fairy's taste ! 

Who wants a cap 
Of crimson grand ? 



By great good hap 
I 've 01 



one on hand : 
Look, sir ! a Cock's-comb, flowering 

red, 
'T is just the thing, sir, for your head ! 

Who wants a frock 

Of vestal hue ? 
Or snowy smock ? 
Fair maid, do you ? 

O me ! a Ladysmock so white I 
Your bosom's self is not more bright. 

Who wants to sport 

A slender limb ? 
I 've every sort 
Of hose for him : 

Both scarlet, striped, and yellow ones : 
This Woodbine makes such pantaloons ! 



Who wants (hush ! hush !) 

A box of paint ? 
'T will give a blush 
Yet leave no taint : 

This rose with natural rouge is fill'd, 
From its own dewy leaves distilFd. 

Then lady and gentlemen fays, come 

buy! 
You never will meet such a merchant 

as I! 



IV 



ROMANZO TO SYLVIA 

I'VE taught thee Love's sweet lesson 

o'er, 
A task that is not learn'd with tears : 

Was Sylvia e'er so blest before 
In her wild, solitary years ? 

Then what does be deserve, the 

Youth, 
Who made her con so dear a truth ! 

Till now in silent vales to roam, 
Singing vain songs to heedless flowers, 
Or watch the dashing billows foam, 
Amid thy lonely myrtle bowers, 

To weave light crowns of various 

hue, 
Were all the joys thy bosom knew. 

The wild bird, though most musical, 
Could not to thy sweet plaint reply ; 

The streamlet and the waterfall 
Could only weep when thou didst sigh ! 
Thou couldst not change one dulcet 

word 
Either with billow, or with bird. 

For leaves and flowers, but these alone, 
Winds have a soft discoursing way ; 

Heav'n's starry talk is all its own, 
It dies in thunder far away. 

E'en when thou wouldst the Moon 

beguile 
To speak, she only deigns to smile ! 

Now, birds and winds, be churlish still, 
Ye waters keep your sullen roar, 

Stars be as distant as ye will, 
Sylvia need court ye now no more : 
In Love there is society 
She never yet could find with ye ! 



DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



23rpan JEaflcr Procter 

("BARRY CORNWALL") 



THE SEA 

THE sea ! the sea ! the open sea ! 

The blue, the fresh, the ever free ! 

Without a mark, without a bound, 

It runneth the earth's wide regions round ; 

It plays with the clouds ; it mocks the skies ; 

Or like a cradled creature lies. 

I 'in on the sea ! I 'm on the sea ! 

I am where I would ever be ; 

With the blue above, and the blue below, 

And silence wheresoe'er I go ; 

If a storm should come and awake the deep, 

What matter ? / shall ride and sleep. 

I love, O, how I love to ride 
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, 
When every mad wave drowns the moon 
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, 
And tells how goeth the world below f 
And why the sou'west blasts do blow. 

I never was on the dull, tame shore, 
But I lov'd the great sea more and more, 
And backwards flew to her billowy breast, 
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest ; 
And a mother she was, and is, to me ; 
For I was born on the open sea ! 

The waves were white, and red the morn, 

In the noisy hour when I was born ; 

And the whale it whistled, the porpoise 

roll'd, 

And the dolphins bared their backs of gold ; 
And never was heard such an outcry wild 
As welcom'd to life the ocean-child ! 

I Ve liv'd since then, in calm and strife, 
Full fifty summers, a sailor's life, 
With wealth to spend and a power to range, 
But never have sought nor sighed for 

change ; 

And Death, whenever he comes to me, 
Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea I 

THE HUNTER'S SONG 

RISE ! Sleep no more ! 'T is a noble morn : 
The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn, 



And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten 

hound, 

Under the steaming, steaming ground. 
Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by, 
And leave us alone in the clear gray sky ! 
Our horses are ready and steady. So, ho I 
I 'm gone, like a dart from the Tartar's bow. 
Hark, hark I Who calleth the maiden 

Morn 

From her sleep in the woods and the 
stubble corn ? 

The horn, the horn ! 
The merry, sweet ring of the hunter's horn. 

Now, thorough the copse, where the fox is 

found, 

And over the stream, at a mighty bound, 
And over the high lands, and over the low, 
O'er furrows, o'er meadows, the hunters go ! 
Away ! as a hawk flies full at its prey, 
So flieth the hunter, away, away I 
From the burst at the cover till set of sun, 
When the red fox dies, and the day is 

done ! 
Hark, hark ! What sound on the wind 

is borne f 

'Tis the conquering voice of the hunter 1 3 
horn. 

The horn, the horn f 
The merry, bold voice of the hunter's horn. 

Sound ! Sound the horn ! To the hunter 

good 

What's the gulley deep or the roaring flood? 
Right over he bounds, as the wild stag 

bounds, 

At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds. 
O, what delight can a mortal lack, 
When he once is firm on his horse's back, 
With his stirrups short, and his snaffle 

strong, 
And the blast of the horn for his morning 

song? 
Hark, hark / Now, home I and dream 

till mom 

Of the bold, sweet sound of the hunter'i 
horn! 

The horn, the horn I 
0, the sound of all sounds is the hunter** 
horn! 



20 



DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE 

How many summers, love, 

Have I been thine ? 
How many days, thou dove, 

Hast thou been mine ? 
Time, like the winged wind 

When 't bends the flowers, 
Hath left no mark behind, 

To count the hours. 

Some weight of thought, though loth, 

On thee he leaves ; 
Some lines of care round both 

Perhaps he weaves ; 
Some fears, a soft regret 

For joys scarce known ; 
Sweet looks we half forget ; 

All else is flown ! 

Ah ! With what thankless heart 

I mourn and sing ! 
Look, where our children start, 

Like sudden Spring ! 
With tongues all sweet and low, 

Like a pleasant rhyme, 
They tell how much I owe 

To thee and Time ! 



THE STORMY PETREL 

A THOUSAND miles from land are we, 
Tossing about on the roaring sea ; 
From billow to bounding billow cast, 
Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast : 
The sails are scatter'd abroad, like weeds, 
The strong masts shake like quivering 

reeds, 

The mighty cables, and iron chains, 
The hull, which all earthly strength disdains, 
They strain and they crack, and hearts like 

stone 
Their natural hard, proud strength disown. 

Up and down ! Up and down ! 

From the base of the wave to the billow's 

crown, 

And midst the flashing and feathery foam 
The Stormy Petrel finds a home, 
A home, if such a place may be, 
For her who lives on the wide, wide sea, 
On the craggy ice, in the frozen air, 
And only seeketh her rocky lair 



To warm her young, and to teach them 

spring 
At once o'er the waves on their stormy 

wing. 

O'er the Deep ! O'er the Deep ! 

Where the whale, and the shark, and the 

sword-fish sleep, 

Outflying the blast and the driving rain, 
The Petrel telleth her tale in vain ; 
For the mariner curseth the warning bird 
Who bringeth him news of the storms un 
heard ! 

Ah ! thus does the prophet, of good or ill, 
Meet hate from the creatures he serveth 

still : 

Yet he ne'er falters : So, Petrel ! spring 
Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy 
wing! 



PEACE ! WHAT DO TEARS AVAIL ? 

PEACE ! what do tears avail ? 
She lies all dumb and pale, 

And from her eye 
The spirit of lovely life is fading, 

And she must die ! 

Why looks the lover wroth ? the friend up 
braiding ? 

Reply, reply ! 

Hath she not dwelt too long 
'Midst pain, and grief, and wrong ? 

Then, why not die ? 
Why suffer again her doom of sorrow, 

And hopeless lie ? 

Why nurse the trembling dream until to 
morrow ? 

Reply, reply ! 

Death ! Take her to thine arms, 
In all her stainless charms, 

And with her fly 

To heavenly haunts, where, clad in bright 
ness, 

The Angels lie. 
Wilt bear her there, O Death ! in all hex 

whiteness ? 
Reply, reply ! 

LIFE 

WE are born ; we laugh ; we weep ; 
We love ; we droop ; we die ! 



BRYAN WALLER PROCTER 



21 



Ah ! wherefore do we laugh or weep ? 

Why do we live, or die ? 
Who knows that secret deep ? 

Alas, not I ! 

Why doth the violet spring 

Unseen by human eye ? 
Why do the radiant seasons bring 

Sweet thoughts that quickly fly ? 
Why do our fond hearts cling 

To things that die ? 

We toil, through pain and wrong ; 

We fight, and fly ; 
We love ; we lose ; and then, ere long, 

Stone-dead we lie. 
O life ! is all thy song 

" Endure and die " ? 

THE BLOOD HORSE 

GAMARRA is a dainty steed, 
Strong, black, and of a noble breed, 
Full of fire, and full of bone, 
Witli all his line of fathers known ; 
Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, 
But blown abroad by the pride within I 
His mane is like a river flowing, 
And his eyes like embers glowing 
In the darkness of the night, 
And his pace as swift as light. 

Look, how 'round his straining throat 

Grace and shifting beauty float ! 

Sinewy strength is on his reins, 

And the red blood gallops through his veins ; 

Richer, redder, never ran 

Through the boasting heart of man. 

He can trace his lineage higher 

Than the Bourbon dare aspire, 

Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, 

Or O'Brien's blood itself ! 

He, who hath no peer, was born 

Here, upon a red March morn : 

But his famous fathers dead 

Were Arabs all, and Arab bred, 

And the last of that great line 

Trod like one of a race divine ! 

And yet, he was but friend to one 

Who fed him at the set of sun, 

By some lone fountain fringed with green : 

With him, a roving Bedouin, 

He liv'd, (none else would he obey 

Through all the hot Arabian day,) 



And died untam'd upon the sands 
Where Balkh amidst the desert stands t 



SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL 

SIT down, sad soul, and count 

The moments flying : 
Come, tell the sweet amount 

That 's lost by sighing ! 
How many smiles ? a score ? 
Then laugh, and count no more ; 
For day is dying. 

Lie down, sad soul, and sleep, 

And no more measure 
The flight of Time, nor weep 

The loss of leisure ; 
But here, by this lone stream, 
Lie down with us, and dream 
Of starry treasure. 

We dream : do thou the same : 

We love for ever ; 
We laugh ; yet few we shame, 

The gentle, never. 
Stay, then, till Sorrow dies ; 
Then hope and happy skies 
Are thine for ever ! 

GOLDEN-TRESSED ADELAIDE 

SING, I pray, a little song, 

Mother dear ! 
Neither sad nor very long : 
It is for a little maid, 
Golden-tressed Adelaide ! 
Therefore let it suit a merry, merry ear, 

Mother dear ! 

Let it be a merry strain, 

Mother dear ! 

Shunning e'en the thought of pain : 
For our gentle child will weep, 
If the theme be dark and deep ; 
And we will not draw a single, single tear, 

Mother dear ! 

Childhood should be all divine, 

Mother dear ! 

And like an endless summer shine ; 
Gay as Edward's shouts and cries, 
Bright as Agnes' azure eyes : 
Therefore, bid thy song be merry : dost 
thou hear, 

Mother dear ? 



22 



DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



A POET'S THOUGHT 

TELL me, what is a poet's thought ? 

Is it on the sudden born ? 
Is it from the starlight caught ? 
Is it by the tempest taught, 

Or by whispering morn ? 

Was it cradled in the brain ? 

Chain'd awhile, or nurs'd in night ? 
Was it wrought with toil and pain ? 
Did it bloom and fade again, 

Ere it burst to light ? 

No more question of its birth : 

Rather love its better part ! 

*T is a thing of sky and earth, 

Gathering all its golden worth 

From the Poet's heart. 



A PETITION TO TIME 

TOUCH us gently, Time ! 

Let us glide adown thy stream 
Gently, as we sometimes glide 

Through a quiet dream. 
Humble voyagers are We, 
Husband, wife, and children three - 
(One is lost, an angel, fled 
To the azure overhead.) 

Touch us gently, Time ! 

We 've not proud nor soaring wings : 
Our ambition, our content, 

Lies in simple things. 
Humble voyagers are We, 
O'er Life's dim, unsounded sea, 
Seeking only some calm clime ; 
Touch us gently, gentle Time ! 



Cfjarieg 



FROM "JOSEPH AND HIS 
BRETHREN " 

RACHEL 

RACHEL, the beautiful (as she was call'd), 
Despis'd our mother Leah, for that she 
Was tender-ey'd, lean-favor'd, and did lack 
The pulpy ripeness swelling the white skin 
To sleek proportions beautiful and round, 
With wrinkled joints so fruitful to the eye. 
All this Is fair : and yet we know it true 
That 'neath a pomane breast and snowy side 
A heart of guile and falsehood may be hid, 
As well as where the soil is deeper tinct. 
So here with this same Rachel was it found : 
The dim blue-laced veins on either brow, 
Neath the transparent skin meandering, 
That with the silver-leaved lily vied ; 
Her full dark eye, whose brightness glis- 

ten'd through 

The sable lashes soft as camel-hair ; 
Her slanting head curv'd like the maiden 

moon 

And hung with hair luxuriant as a vine 
And blacker than a storm ; her rounded ear 
Turn'd like a shell upon some golden shore ; 
Her whispering foot that carried all her 

weight, 



Nor left its little pressure on the sand ; 
Her lips as drowsy poppies, soft and red, 
Gathering a dew from her escaping breath j 
Her voice melodious, mellow, deep, and 

clear, 

Lingering like sweet music in the ear ; 
Her neck o'ersoften'd like to unsunu'd curd; 
Her tapering lingers rounded to a point ; 
The silken softness of her veined hand ; 
Her dimpled knuckles answering to her 

chin ; 

And teeth like honeycombs o' the wilder 
ness : 

All these did tend to a bad proof in her. 
For armed thus in beauty she did steal 
The eye of Jacob to her proper self, 
Engross'd his time, and kept him by hep 

side, 

Casting on Leah indifference and neglect ; 
Whereat great Heaven took our mother's 

part 

And struck young Rachel with a barrenness, 
While she bore children : thus the matter 

went ; 

Till Rachel, feeling guilty of her fault, 
Turn'd to some penitence, which Heaven 

heard ; 
And then she bore this Joseph, who must, 

and does, 



CHARLES JEREMIAH WELLS 



Inherit towards the children all the pride 
And scorn his mother had towards our 

mother : 
Wherefore he suffers in our just rebuke. 

PHRAXANOR TO JOSEPH 

Phrax. Oh I ignorant boy, it is the secret 

hour, 
The sun of love doth shine most goodly 

fair. 

Contemptible darkness never yet did dull 
The splendor of love's palpitating light. 
At love's slight curtains, that are made of 

sighs, 

Though e'er so dark, silence is seen to stand 
Like to a flower closed in the night ; 
Or, like a lovely image drooping down 
With its fair head aslant and finger rais'd, 
And mutely on its shoulder slumbering. 
Pulses do sound quick music in Love's ear, 
And blended fragrance in his startled breath 
Doth hang the hair with drops of magic dew. 
All outward thoughts, all common circum 
stance, 

Are buried in the dimple of his smile : 
And the great city like a vision sails 
From out the closing doors of the hush'd 

mind. 

His heart strikes audibly against his ribs 
As a dove's wing doth freak upon a cage, 
Forcing the blood athro' the cramped veins 
Faster than dolphins do o'ershoot the tide 
Cours'd by the yawning shark. Therefore 

I say 
Night-blooming Cereus, and the star-flower 

sweet, 

The honeysuckle, and the eglantine, 
And the ring'd vinous tree that yields red 

wine, 

Together with all intertwining flowers, 
Are plants most fit to ramble o'er each 

other, 

And form the bower of all-precious Love, 
Shrouding the sun with fragrant bloom and 

leaves 

From jealous interception of Love's gaze. 
This is Love's cabin in the light of day, 
But oh ! compare it not with the black 

night; 

Delay thou sun, and give me instant night 
Its soft, mysterious, and secret hours ; 
The whitest clouds are pillows to bright 

stars, 
&h ! therefore shroud thine eyes. 



THE PATRIARCHAL HOME 

Joseph. Still I am patient, tho' you're 

merciless. 

Yet to speak out my mind, I do avouch 
There is no city feast, nor city show, 
The encampment of the king and soldiery. 
Rejoicings, revelries, and victories, 
Can equal the remembrance of my home 
In visible imagination. 
Even as he was I see my father now, 
His ^rave and graceful head's benignity 
Musing beyond the confines of this world, 
His world within with all its mysteries. 
What pompless majesty was in his mien, 
An image of integrity creates, 
Pattern of nature, in perfection. 
Lo ! in the morning when we issued forth, 
The patriarch surrounded by his sons, 
Girt round with looks of sweet obedience, 
Each struggling who should honor him the 

most ; 
While from the wrinkles deep of many 

years, 

Enfurrow'd smiles, like violets in snow, 
Touch'd us with heat and melancholy cold, 
Mingling our joy with sorrow for his age : 
There were my brothers, habited in skins ; 
Ten goodly men, myself, and a sweet youth 
Too young to mix in anything but joy ; 
And in his hands each led a milk-white 

steer, 

Hung o'er with rpses, garlanded with flow 
ers, 
Laden with fragrant panniers of green 

boughs 

Of bays and myrtle interleav'd with herbs, 
Wherein was stor'd our country wine and 

fruit, 
And bread with honey sweeten'd, and dried 

figs, 

And pressed curds, and choicest rarities, 
Stores of the cheerless season of the year ; 
While at our sides the women of our tribe, 
With pitchers on their heads, fill'd to the 

brim 
With wine, and honey, and with smoking 

milk, 
Made proud the black-ey'd heifers with the 

swell 

Of the sweet anthem sung in plenty's praise. 
Thus would we journey to the wilderness, 
And fixing O n some peak that did o'erlook 
The spacious plains that lay display'd be 
neath, 



DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



Where we could see our cattle, like to specks 
In the warm meads, browsing the juicy 

grass, 
There pitch our tent, and feast, and revel 

out, 

The minutes flying faster than our feet 
That vaulted nimbly to the pipe and voice, 
Making fatigue more sweet by appetite. 
There stood the graceful Reuben by my 

sire, 

Piping a ditty, ardent as the sun, 
And, like him, stealing renovation 
Into the darkest corner of the soul, 
And filling it with light. There, women 

group'd, 

My sisters and their maids, with ears sub 
dued, 

With bosoms panting from the eager dance, 
Against each other lean'd ; as I have seen 
A graceful tuft of lilies of the vale 
Oppress'd with rain, upon each other bend, 
While freshness has stol'n o'er them. Some 

way off 
My brothers pitch'd the bar, or plough'd for 

fame. 
Each two with their two heifers harness'd 

fast 

Unto the shaft, and labor'd till the sweat 
Had crept about them like a sudden thaw. 
Anon they tied an eagle to a tree, 
And strove at archery ; or with a bear 
Struggled for strength of limb. These 

were no slaves . 
No villain's sons to rifle passengers. 
The sports being done, the winners claim'd 

the spoil : 

Or hide, or feather, or renowned bow, 
Or spotted cow, or fleet and pamper'd horse. 
And then my father bless'd us, and we sang 
Our sweet way home again. Oft I have 

ach'd 

In memory of these so precious hours, 
And wept upon those keys that were my 

pride, 

And soak'd my pillow thro' the heavy night. 
Alas ! God willing, I '11 be patient yet. 

THE TRIUMPH OF JOSEPH 

In the royal path 
Came maidens rob'd in white, enchain'd in 

flowers, 
Sweeping the ground with incense-scented 

palms : 
Then came the sweetest voices of the land, 



And cried, ' Bow ye the knee ! ' and then 

aloud 

Clarions and trumpets broke forth in the air: 
After a multitude of men-at-arms, 
Of priests, of officers, and horsed chiefs, 
Came the benignant Pharaoh, whose great 

pride 

Was buried in his smile. I did but glimpse 
His car, for 't was of burnish'd gold. No 

eye 

Save that of eagles could confront the blaze 
That seem'd to burn the air, unless it fell 
Either on sapphire or carbuncle huge 
That riveted the weight. This car was 

drawn 

By twelve jet horses, being four abreast, 
And pied in their own foam. Within the 

car 
Sat Pharaoh, whose bare head was girt 

around 

By a crown of iron ; and his sable hair, 
Like strakey as a mane, fell where it would, 
And somewhat hid his glossy sun-brent neck 
And carcanet of precious sardonyx. 
His jewell'd armlets, weighty as a sword, 
Clasp'd his brown naked arms a crimson 

robe, 
Deep edged with silver, and with golden 

thread, 

Upon a bear-skin kirtle deeply blush'd, 
Whose broad resplendent braid and shield- 
like clasps 
Were boss'd with diamonds large, by rubies 

fir'd, 

Like beauty's eye in rage, or roses white 
Lit by the glowing red. Beside him lay 
A bunch of poppied corn ; and at his feet 
A tamed lion as his footstool crouch'd. 
Cas'd o'er in burnish'd plates I, hors'd, did 

bear 

A snow-white eagle on a silver shaft, 
From whence great Pharaoh's royal banner 

stream'd, 

An emblem of his might and dignity ; 
And as the minstrelsy burst clanging forth, 
With shouts that broke like thunder from 

the host, 

The royal bird with kindred pride of power 
Flew up the measure of his silken cord, 
And arch'd his cloud-like wings as he would 

mount, 

And babble of this glory to the sun. 
Then follow'd Joseph in a silver car, 
Drawn by eight horses, white as evening 

clouds : 



SIR HENRY TAYLOR 



1 1 His feet were resting upon Pharaoh's sword ; 
And on his head a i-rown of drooping corn 
Moc-k'd that of Ceres in high holiday. 
His robes were simple, but were full of 

grace, 
And (out of love and truth I speak him 

thus) 



I never did behold a man less proud, 
More dignified or grateful to admire. 
His honors nothing teas'd him from him 
self; 

And he but fill'd his fortunes like a man 
Who did intend to honor them as much 
As they could honor him- 



aplor 



FROM "PHILIP VAN ARTE- 
VELDE" 

JOHN OF LAUNOY 

I NEVER look'd that he should live so long. 
He was a man of that unsleeping spirit, 
He seem'd to live by miracle : his food 
Was glory, which was poison to his mind 
And peril to his body. He was one 
Of many thousand such that die betimes, 
Whose story is a fragment, known to few. 
Then comes the man who has the luck to live, 
And he 's a prodigy. Compute the chances, 
And deem there 's ne'er a one in dangerous 

times 

Who wins the race of glory, but than him 
A thousand men more gloriously endow'd 
Have fallen upon the course ; a thousand 

others 
Have had their fortunes founder'd by a 

chance, 
Whilst lighter barks push'd past them ; to 

whom add 
A smaller tally, of the singular few 
Who, gifted with predominating powers, 
Bear yet a temperate will and keep the 

peace. 
Hie world knows nothing of its greatest 

men. 

REVOLUTIONS 

;r | There was a time, so ancient records tell, 
There were communities, scarce known by 

name 
In these degenerate days, but once far- 

fam'd, 

Where liberty and justice, hand in hand, 
Order'd the common weal ; where great 

men grew 



Up to their natural eminence, and none, 
Saving the wise, just, eloquent, were great ; 
Where power was of God's gift, to whom 

he gave 

Supremacy of merit, the sole means 
And broad highway to power, that ever 

then 

Was meritoriously administer'd, 
Whilst all its instruments from first to last, 
The tools of state for service high or low, 
Were chosen for their aptness to those ends 
Which virtue meditates. To shake the 

ground 
Deep-founded whereupon this structure 

stood, 

Was verily a crime ; a treason it was, 
Conspiracies to hatch against this state 
And its free innocence. But now, I ask, 
Where is there on God's earth that polity 
Which it is not, by consequence converse, 
A treason against nature to uphold ? 
Whom may we now call free ? whom great? 

whom wise ? 

Whom innocent ? the free are only they 
Whom power makes free to execute all ills 
Their hearts' imagine ; they alone are great 
Whose passions nurse them from their cra 
dles up 

In luxury and lewdness, whom to see 
Is to despise, whose aspects put to scorn 
Their station's eminence ; the wise, they 

only 

Who wait obscurely till the bolts of heaven 
Shall break upon the land, and give them 

light 

Whereby to walk ; the innocent, alas ! 
Poor innoceucy lies where four roads meet, 
A stone upon her head, a stake driven 

through her, 

For who is innocent that cares to live ? 
The hand of power doth press the very life 
Of innocency out ! What then remains 



DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



But in the cause of nature to stand forth, 
And turn this frame of things the right side 

up? 
For this the hour is come, the sword is 

drawn, 
And tell your masters vainly they resist. 

SONG 

Down lay in a nook my lady's brach, 
And said my feet are sore, 

J cannot follow with the pack 
A hunting of the boar. 

And though the horn sounds never so clear 
With the hounds in loud uproar, 

Yet I must stop and lie down here, 
Because my feet are sore. 

The huntsman when he heard the same, 

What answer did he give ? 
The dog that 's lame is much to blame, 

He is not fit to live. 

SONG 

Quoth tongue of neither maid nor wife 
To heart of neither wife nor maid, 

Lead we not here a jolly life 

Betwixt the shine and shade ? 

Quoth heart of neither maid nor wife 
To tongue of neither wife nor maid, 

Thou wag'st, but I am worn with strife, 
And feel like flowers that fade. 

PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE 

Dire rebel though he was, 
Yet with a noble nature and great gifts 
Was he endow'd, courage, discretion, 

wit, 

An equal temper, and an ample soul, 
Rock-bound and fortified against assaults 
Of transitory passion, but below 
Built on a surging subterranean fire 
That stirr'd and lifted him to high attempts. 
So prompt and capable, and yet so calm, 
He nothing lack'd in sovereignty but the 

right, 

Nothing in soldiership except good fortune. 
Wherefore with honor lay him in his grave, 
And thereby shall increase of honor come 
Unto their arms who vanquish'd one so wise, 
So valiant, so renown'd. 



FROM "EDWIN THE FAIR" 

THE WIND IN THE PINES 

THE tale was this : 

The wind, when first he rose and went 

abroad 
Through the waste region, felt himself at 

fault, 

Wanting a voice ; and suddenly to earth 
Descended with a wafture and a swoop, 
Where, wandering volatile from kind to 

kind, 

He woo'd the several trees to give him one. 
First he besought the ash ; the voice she lent 
Fitfully with a free and lashing change 
Flung here and there its sad uncertainties : 
The aspen next ; a flutter'd frivolous twit 
ter 

Was her sole tribute : from the willow came, 
So long as dainty summer dress'd her out, 
A whispering sweetness, but her winter note 
Was hissing, dry, and reedy : lastly the pine 
Did he solicit, and from her he drew 
A voice so constant, soft, and lowly deep, 
That there he rested, welcoming in her 
A mild memorial of the ocean-cave 
Where he was born. 



A CHARACTERIZATION 

His life was private ; safely led, aloof 
From the loud world, which yet he under 
stood 

Largely and wisely, as no worldling could. 
For he, by privilege of his nature proof 
Against false glitter, from beneath the roof 
Of privacy, as from a cave, survey'd 
With steadfast eye its flickering light and 

shade, 

And gently judged for evil and for good. 
But whilst he mix'd not for his own behoof 
In public strife, his spirit glow'd with zeal. 
Not shorn of action, for the public weal, 
For truth and justice as its warp and woof. 
For freedom as its signature and seal. 
His life, thus sacred from the world, dis 
charged 

From vain ambition and inordinate care, 
In virtue exercis'd, by reverence rare 
Lifted, and by humility enlarged, 
Became a temple and a place of prayer. 
In latter years he walk'd not singly there ; 



LORD MACAULAY 



For one was with him, ready at all hours 
His griefs, his joys, his inmost thoughts to 

share, 

Who buoyantly his burthens help'd to bear, 
And deck'd his altars daily with fresh flow 
ers. 
Lines on the Hon. Edward Ernest Villiers. 

ARETINA'S SONG 

I 'M a bird that 's free 
Of the land and sea, 

I wander whither I will ; 
But oft on the wing, 
I falter and sing, 

Oh, fluttering heart, be still, 
Be still, 

Oh, fluttering heart, be still ! 

I'm wild as the wind, 
But soft and kind, 

And wander whither I may ; 
The eyebright sighs, 
And says with its eyes, 

Thou wandering wind, oh stay, 

Oh stay, 
Thou wandering wind, oh stay ! 

A Sicilian Summer. 

THE HERO 

WHAT makes a hero ? not success, not 

fame, 
Inebriate merchants, and the loud acclaim 



Of glutted Avarice, caps toss'd up in 

air, 

Or pen of journalist with flourish fair ; 
Bells peal'd, stars, ribbons, and a titulai 

name 
These, though his rightful tribute, he can 

spare ; 

His rightful tribute, not his end or aim, 
Or true reward ; for never yet did these 
Refresh the soul, or set the heart at 

ease. 

What makes a hero ? An heroic mind, 
Express'd in action, in endurance prov'd. 
And if there be preeminence of right, 
Deriv'd through pain well suffer'd, to the 

height 

Of rank heroic, 't is to bear unmov'd, 
Not toil, not risk, not rage of sea or 

wind, 

Not the brute fury of barbarians blind, 
But worse ingratitude and poisonous 

darts, 
Launched by the country he had serv'd 

and lov'd : 

This, with a free, unclouded spirit pure, 
This, in the strength of silence to endure, 
A dignity to noble deeds imparts 
Beyond the gauds and trappings of re 
nown ; 

This is the hero's complement and crown ; 
This miss'd, one struggle had been want 
ing still, 

One glorious triumph of the heroic will, 
One self-approval in his heart of hearts. 



Horti 

(THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY) 



THE BATTLE OF NASEBY 



BY OBADIAH- BIND -THEIR -KINGS -IN - 

CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WITH- 

LINKS-OF-IRON, SERGEANT IN 

IRETON'S REGIMENT 



OH ! wherefore come ye forth in triumph 

from the north, 
With your hands, and your feet, and your 

raiment all red ? 



And wherefore doth your rout send forth a 

joyous shout ? 
And whence be the grapes of the wine-press 

that ye tread ? 

Oh ! evil was the root, and bitter was the 

fruit, 
And crimson was the juice of the vintage 

that we trod ; 
For we trampled on the throng of the 

haughty and the strong, 
Who sate in the high places and slew the 

saints of God, 



28 



DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



It was about the noon of a glorious day of 
June; 

That we saw their banners dance and their 
cuirasses shine, 

And the man of blood was there, with his 
long essenced hair, 

And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Ru 
pert of the Rhine. 

Like a servant of the Lord, with his bible 

and his sword, 
The general rode along us to form us for 

the fight ; 
When a murmuring sound broke out, and 

swell'd into a shout 
Among the godless horsemen upon the 

tyrant's right. 

And hark ! like the roar of the billows on 

the shore, 
The cry of battle rises along their charging 

line : 
For God ! for the cause ! for the Church ! 

for the laws ! 
For Charles, king of England, and Rupert 

of the Rhine ! 

The furious German comes, with his clari 
ons and his drums, 

His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of White 
hall ; 

They are bursting on our flanks ! Grasp 
your pikes ! Close your ranks ! 

For Rupert never comes, but to conquer, or 
to fall. 

They are here they rush on we are 

broken we are gone 
Our left is borne before them like stubble 

on the blast. 
O Lord, put forth thy might ! O Lord, 

defend the right ! 
Stand back to back, in God's name ! and 

fight it to the last ! 

Stout Skippon hath a wound the centre 

hath given ground. 
Hark ! hark ! what means the trampling 

of horsemen on our rear ? 
Whose banner do I see, boys ? ' T is he ! 

thank God! 'tis he, boys ! 
Bear up another minute ! Brave Oliver is 

here ! 

Their heads all stooping low, their points 
all in a row : 



Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge 

on the dikes, 
Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of 

the Accurst, 
And at a shock have scatter'd the forest of 

his pikes. 

Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe 

nook to hide 
Their coward heads, predestin'd to rot on 

Temple Bar ; 
And he he turns ! he flies ! shame on 

those cruel eyes 
That bore to look on torture, and dare not 

look on war ! 

Ho, comrades ! scour the plain ; and ere ye 

strip the slain, 
First give another stab to make your search 

secure ; 
Then shake from sleeves and pockets their 

broad-pieces and lockets, 
The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the 

poor. 

Fools ! your doublets shone with gold, and 

your hearts were gay and bold, 
When you kiss'd your lily hands to your 

lemans to-day ; 
And to-morrow shall the fox from her 

chambers in the rocks 
Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl about 

the prey. 

Where be your tongues, that late mock'd 

at heaven and hell and fate ? 
And the fingers that once were so busy with 

your blades ? 
Your perfum'd satin clothes, your catches i 

and your oaths ? 
Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your 

diamonds and your spades ? 

Down, down, for ever down with the mitre i 

and the crown, 
With the Belial of the court, and the Mam- < 

mon of the Pope ! 
There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail 

in Durham's stalls ; 
The Jesuit smites his bosom, the bishop* 

rends his cope. 

And she of the seven hills shall mourn her 

children's ills, 
And tremble when she thinks on the edge 

of England's sword j 



LORD MACAULAY 



29 



And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder 

whrn they hear 
What the hand of God hath wrought for the 

Houses and the Word! 



EPITAPH ON A JACOBITE 

To my true king I offer'd free from stain 
and faith : vain faith, and courage 

vain. 
him, I threw lands, honors, wealth, 

away, 
one dear hope, that was more priz'd 

than they. 

him I languished in a foreign clime, 
Gray-hair'd with sorrow in my manhood's 

prime ; 
Heard on Lavernia ScargilPs whispering 

trees, 

And pin'd by Arno for my lovelier Tees ; 
Beheld each night my home in fever'd sleep, 
Each morning started from the dream to 

weep ; 

Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave 
The resting place I ask'd, an early grave. 
Oh thou, whom chance leads to this nameless 

stone 
From that proud country which was once 

mine own, 

By those white cliffs I never more must see, 
By that dear language which I spake like 

thee, 

Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear 
O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here. 



IVRY 

Now glory to the Lord of hosts, from whom 

all glories are ! 
And glory to our sovereign liege, King 

Henry of Navarre ! 
Now let there be the merry sound of music 

and of dance, 
Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny 

vines, O pleasant land of France ! 
And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, 

proud city of the waters, 
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy 

mourning daughters. 
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous 

in our joy ; 
For cold and stiff and still are they who 

wrought thy walls annoy. 



Hurrah ! hurrah ! a single field hath turu'd 

the chance of war ! 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Ivry, and Henry of 

Navarre. 

Oh ! how our hearts were beating, when, at 

the dawn of day, 
We saw the army of the League drawn out 

in long array ; 
With all its priest-led citizens, and all ita 

rebel peers, 
And AppenzeFs stout infantry, and Eg- 

mont's Flemish spears. 
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the 

curses of our land ; 
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a 

truncheon in his hand ; 
And, as we look'd on them, we thought of 

Seine's empurpled flood, 
And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled 

with his blood ; 
And we cried unto the living God, who rules 

the fate of war, 
To fight for His own holy name, and Henry 

of Navarre. 

The king is come to marshal us, in all his 

armor drest ; 
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon 

his gallant crest. 
He look'-d upon his people, and a tear was 

in his eye ; 
He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance 

was stern and high. 
Right graciously he smil'd on us, as roll'd 

from wing to wing, 
Down all our line, a deafening shout : God 

save our lord the king ! 
" And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full 

well he may, 
For never I saw promise yet of such a 

bloody fray, 
Press where ye see my white plume shine 

amidst the ranks of war, 
And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet 

of Navarre." 

Hurrah ! the foes are moving. Hark to 

the mingled din, 
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, 

and roaring culveriu. 
The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint 

A m I iv's plain, 
With all the hireling chivalry of Gueldrs 

and Alumyne. 



DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentle 
men of France, 

Charge for the golden lilies upon them 
with the lance ! 

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thou 
sand spears in rest, 

A thousand knights are pressing close be 
hind the snow-white crest ; 

And in they burst, and on they rush'd, 
while, like a guiding star, 

Amidst the thickest carnage blaz'd the hel 
met of Navarre. 

Now, God be prais'd, the day is ours : Ma- 
yenne hath turn'd his rein ; 

D'Aumale hath cried for quarter ; the 
Flemish count is slain. 

Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds 
before a Biscay gale ; 

The field is heap'd with bleeding steeds, 
and flags, and cloven mail. 

And then we thought on vengeance, and, 
all along our van, 

Remember Saint Bartholomew ! was pass'd 
from man to man. 

But out spake gentle Henry " No French 
man is my foe : 

Down, down with every foreigner, but let 
your brethren go : " 

Oh ! was there ever such a knight, in friend 
ship or in war, 

As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the sol 
dier of Navarre ? 

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who 
fought for France to-day ; 

And many a lordly banner God gave them 
for a prey. 



But we of the religion have borne us best 

in fight ; 
And the good lord of Rosny hath ta'en the 

cornet white 
Our own true Maximilian the cornet white 

hath ta'en, 
The cornet white with crosses black, the flag 

of false Lorraine. 
Up with it high ; unfurl it wide ; that all 

the host may know 
How God hath humbled the proud house 

which wrought His Church such 

woe. 
Then on the ground, while trumpets sound 

their loudest point of war, 
Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for 

Henry of Navarre. 

Ho ! maidens of Vienna ; ho ! matrons 

Lucerne 
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those 

who never shall return. 
Ho ! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican 

pistoles, 
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for 

thy poor spearmen's souls. 
Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look that 

your arms be bright ; 
Ho ! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch 

and ward to-night ; 
For our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our 

God hath rais'd the slave, 
And mock'd the counsel of the wise, and 

the valor of the brave. 
Then glory to His holy name, from whom 

all glories are ; 
And glory to our sovereign lord,King Henry 

of Navarre ! 



ftirfjarfc 



FROM "ORION : AN EPIC POEM" 

MEETING OF ORION AND ARTEMIS 

AFAR the hunt in vales below has sped, 
But now behind the wooded mount ascends, 
Threading its upward mazes of rough 

boughs, 

Moss'd trunks and thickets, still invisible, 
Although its jocund music fills the air 



With cries and laughing echoes, mellow'd 

all 
By intervening woods and the deep hills. 

The scene in front two sloping mountain 
sides 

Display'd ; in shadow one, and one in light 
The loftiest on its summit now sustain'd 
The sun-beams, raying like a mighty wheel 
Half seen, which left the front-ward sur 
face dark 



RICHARD HENGIST HORNE 



In its full breadth of shade ; the coming sun 
Hidden as yet behind : the other mount, 
Slanting oppos'd, swept with an eastward 

face, 
Catching the golden light. Now, while the 

peal 

Of the ascending chase told that the rout 
Still midway rent the thickets, suddenly 
Along the broad and sunny slope appear'd 
The shadow of a stag that fled across, 
Follow'd by a Giant's shadow with a spear ! 

"Hunter of Shadows, thou thyself a 

Shade," 

Be comforted in this, that substance holds 
No higher attributes ; one sovereign law 
Alike develops both, and each shall hunt 
Its proper object, each in turn commanding 
Tin- primal impulse, till gaunt Time become 
A Shadow cast on Space to fluctuate, 
Waiting the breath of the Creative Power 
To give new types for substance yet un 
known : 

So from f aiiit nebulse bright worlds are born ; 
So worlds return to vapor. Dreams design 
Most solid lasting things, and from the eye 
That searches life, death evermore retreats. 

Substance unseen, pure mythos, or mi 
rage, 
The shadowy chase has vanish'd ; round the 

swell 
Of the near mountain sweeps a bounding 

stag ; 

Round whirls a god-like Giant close behind ; 
.O'er a fallen trunk the stag with slippery 

hoofs 
Stumbles his sleek knees lightly touch 

the grass 
Upward he springs but in his forward 

leap, 

The Giant's hand hath caught him fast be 
neath 

One shoulder tuft, and, lifted high in air, 
Sustains ! Now Phoibos' chariot rising 

bursts 

Over the summits with a circling blaze, 
Gilding those frantic antlers, and the head 
Of that so glorious Giant in his youth, 
Who, as he turns, the form saccinct beholds 
Of Artemis, her bow, with points drawn 

back, 

A golden hue on her white rounded breast 
Reflecting, while the arrow's ample barb 
Gleams o'er her hand, and at his heart is 
aim'd. 



The Giant lower'd his arm away the 

stag 

Breast forward plunged into a thicket near; 
The Goddess paus'd, and dropp'd her ar 
row's point 

Rais'd it again and then again relax'd 
Her tension, and while slow the shaft carae 

gliding 

Over the centre of the bow, beside 
Her hand, and gently droop'd, so did the 

knee 

Of that heroic shape do reverence 
Before the Goddess. Their clear eyes had 

ceas'd 

To flash, and gaz'd with earnest softening 
light. 

DISTRAUGHT FOR MEROPE. 

O Meropd ! 

And where art thou, while idly thus I rave ? 
Runs there no hope no fever through thy 

veins, 
Like that which leaps and courses round 

my heart ? 

Shall I resign thee, passion-perfect maid, 
Who in mortality's most finish'd work 
Rank'st highest and lov'st me, even as 1 

love? 

Rather possess thee with a tenfold stress 
Of love ungovernable, being denied J 
'Gainst fraud what should I cast down in 

reply ? 
What but a sword, since force must do me 

right, 
And strength was given unto me with my 

birth, 

In mine own hand, and by ascendancy 
Over my giant brethren. Two remain, 
Whom prayers to dark Hephaistos and my 

sire 

Poseidon, shall awaken into life ; 
And we will tear up gates, and scatter 

towers, 

Until I bear off Meropd. Sing on ! 
Sing on, great tempest ! in the darkness 

sing! 

Thy madness is a music that brings calm 
Into my central soul ; and from its waves 
That now with joy begin to heave and gush, 
The burning Image of all life's desire, 
Like an absorbing fire-breath'd phantom- 
god, 
Rises and floats ! here touching on the 

foam, 
There hovering over it ; ascending swift 



DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



Starward, then swooping down the hemi 
sphere 

Upon the lengthening javelins of the blast. 
Why paus'd I in the palace-groves to dream 
Of bliss, with all its substance in my reach ? 
Why not at once, with thee enfolded, whirl 
Deep down the abyss of ecstasy, to melt 
All brain and being where no reason is, 
Or else the source of reason ? But the roar 
Of Time's great wings, which ne'er had 

driven me 

By dread events, nor broken-down old age, 
Back on myself, the close experience 
Of false mankind, with whispers cold and 

dry 
As snake-songs midst stone hollows, thus 

has taught me, 

The giant hunter, laugh'd at by the world, 
Not to forget the substance in the dream 
Which breeds it. Both must melt and 

merge in one. 

Now shall I overcome thee, body and soul, 
And like a new-made element brood o'er 

thee 
With all devouring murmurs ! Come, my 

love ! 
Come, life's blood-tempest! come, thou 

blinding storm, 
And clasp the rigid pine this mortal 

frame 
Wrap with thy whirlwinds, rend and wrestle 

down, 

And let my being solve its destiny, 
Defying, seeking, thine extremest power; 
Famish'd and thirsty for the absorbing 

doom 

Of that immortal death which leads to life, 
And gives a glimpse of Heaven's parental 

scheme. 

IN FOREST DEPTHS 

Within the isle, far from the walks of 

men, 
Where jocund chase was never heard, nor 

hoof 

Of Satyr broke the moss, nor any bird 
Sang, save at times the nightingale but 

only 

In his prolong'd and swelling tones, nor e'er 
With wild joy and hoarse laughing melody, 
Closing the ecstasy, as is his wont, 
A forest, separate and far withdrawn 
From all the rest, there grew. Old as the 

earth, 



Of cedar was it, lofty in its glooms 
When the sun hung o'erhead, and, in its 

darkness, 
Like Night when giving birth to Time' 

first pulse. 

Silence had ever dwelt there ; but of late 
Came faint sounds, with a cadence droning 

low, 

From the far depths, as of a cataract 
Whose echoes midst incumbent foliage died. 
From one high mountain gush'd a flowing 

stream, 
Which through the forest pass'd, and found 

a fall 
Within, none knew where, then roll'd 

tow'rds the sea. 

There, underneath the boughs, mark 

where the gleam 
Of sunrise through the roofing's chasm is 

thrown 

Upon a grassy plot below, whereon 
The shadow of a stag stoops to the stream 
Swift rolling tow'rds the cataract, and 

drinks deeply. 

Throughout the day unceasingly it drinks, 
While ever and anon the nightingale, 
Not waiting for the evening, swells his 

hymn 
His one sustain'd and heaven - aspiring 

tone 

And when the sun hath vanish'd utterly, 
Arm over arm the cedars spread their shade, 
With arching wrist and long extended 

hands, 
And graveward fingers lengthening in the 

moon, 

Above that shadowy stag whose antlers still 
Hang o'er the stream. Now came a rich- \\ 

ton'd voice 

Out of the forest depths, and sang this lay, i 
With deep speech intervall'd and tender ! 

pause. 

" If we have lost the world what gain is j 

ours ! 

Hast thou not built a palace of more grace 
Than marble towers ? These trunks are ; 

pillars rare, 

Whose roof embowers with far more gran 
deur. Say, 

Hast thou not found a bliss with Me rope*, 
As full of rapture as existence new ? 
'T is thus with me. I know that thou art 
bless'd. 



RICHARD HENGIST HORNE 



33 



Our inmost powers, fresh wiug'd, shall soar 

and dream 

In realms of Klysian gleam, whose air 
tight tlowers, 
Will ever be, though vague, most fair, most 

sweet, 

Better than memory. Look yonder, love ! 
What solemn hnage through the trunks is 

straying ? 

And now he doth not move, yet never turns 
On us his visage of rapt vacancy ! 
It is ( )blivion. In his hand though nought 
Knows he of this a dusky purple flower 
Droops over its tall stem. Again, ah see ! 
He wanders into mist, and now is lost. 
Within his brain what lovely realms of 

death 
Are pictur'd, and what knowledge through 

the doors 

Of his forgetfulness of all the earth 
A path may gain ? Then turn thee, love, 

to me : 

Was I not worth thy winning, and thy toil, 
earth-born son of Ocean ? Melt to rain." 

EOS 

Level with the summit of that eastern 

mount, 

By slow approach, and like a promontory 
Which seems to glide and meet a coming 

ship, 

The pale-gold platform of the morning came 
Towards the gliding mount. Against a sky 
Of delicate purple, snow-bright courts and 

halls, 
Touch'd with light silvery green, gleaming 

across, 

Fronted by pillars vast, cloud-capitall'd, 
With shafts of changeful pearl, all rear'd 

upon 

An isle of clear aerial gold, came floating ; 
And in the centre, clad in fleecy white, 
With lucid lilies in her golden hair, 
Eos, sweet Goddess of the Morning, stood. 

From the bright peak of that surrounded 

mount, 

One step sufficed to gain the tremulous floor 
Whereon the palace of the Morning shone, 
Scarcely a bow-shot distant ; but that step, 
Orion's humbled and still mortal feet 
Dai (1 not adventure. In the Goddess' face 
Imploringly he gaz'd. "Advance!" she 
said, 



In tones more sweet than when some hea 
venly bird, 

Hid in a rosy cloud, its morning hvmn 
Warbles unseen, wet with delicious dews, 
And to earth's flowers, all looking up in 

prayer, 

Tells of the coming bliss. " Believe ad 
vance ! 
Or, as the spheres move onward with their 

song 

That calls me to awaken other lands, 
That moment will escape which ne'er re 
turns." 
Forward Orion stepp'd : the platform 

bright 

Shook like the reflex of a star in water 
Mov'd by the breeze, throughout its whole 

expanse ; 

And even the palace glisten'd fitfully, 
As with electric shiver it sent forth 
Odors of flowers divine and all fresh life. 
Still stood he where he stepp'd, nor to 

return 

Attempted. To essay one pace beyond 
He felt no power yet onward he advanced 
Safe to the Goddess, who, with hand out- 

stretch'd, 
Into the palace, led him. Grace and 

strength, 

With sense of happy change to finer earth, 
Freshness of nature, and belief in good, 
Came flowing o'er his soul, and he was 
bless'd. 

'Tis always morning somewhere in the 

world, 

And Eos rises, circling constantly 
The varied regions of mankind. No pause 
Of renovation and of freshening rays 
She knows, but evermore her love breathes 

forth 

On fiVld and forest, as on human hope, 
Health, beauty, power, thought, action, and 

advance. 
All this Orion witness'd, and rejoiced. 

AKINETOS 

'T was eve, and Time, his vigorous course 

pursuing, 

Met Akinetos walking by the sea. 
At sight of him the Father of the Hours 
Paus'd on the sand, which shrank, grew 

moist, and trembled 
At that unwonted pressure of the God. 



34 



DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



And thus with look and accent stern, he 
spake : 

" Thou art the mortal who, with hand un- 

mov'd, 

Eatest the fruit of others' toil; whose heart 
Is but a vital engine that conveys 
Blood, to no purpose, up and down thy frame ; 
Whose forehead is a large stone sepulchre 
Of knowledge ! and whose life but turns to 

waste 
My measur'd hours, and earth's material 

mass!" 

Whereto the Great Unmov'd no answer 

made, 

And Time continued, sterner than before : 
" O not-to-be-approv'd ! thou Apathy, 
Who gazest downward on that empty 

shell, 

Is it for thee, who bear'st the common lot 
Of man, and art his brother in the fields, 
From birth to funeral pyre ; is it for thee, 
Who didst derive from thy long-living sire 
More knowledge than endows far better 

sons, 

Thy lamp to burn within, and turn aside 
Thy face from all humanity, or behold it 
Without emotion, like some sea-shell'd 

thing 

Staring around from a green hollow'd rock, 
Not aiding, loving, caring hoping aught 
Forgetting Nature, and by her forgot ? " 

Whereto, with mildness, Akinetos said, 
" Hast thou consider'd of Eternity ? " 
" Profoundly have I done so, in my youth," 
Chronos replied, and bow'd his furrow'd 

head; 
" Most, when my tender feet from Chaos 

trod 
Stumbling, and, doubtful of my eyes, my 

hands 
The dazzling air explor'd. But, since that 

date, 

So many ages have I told ; so many, 
Fleet after fleet on newly opening seas, 
Descry before me, that of late my thoughts 
Have rather dwelt on all around my path, 
With anxious care. Well were it thus with 

thee." 

Then Akinetos calmly spake once more, 
With eyes stUl bent upon the tide-ribb'd 

aarwlo 



" And dost thou of To-morrow also think ? " 
Whereat, as one dismay'd by sudden 

thought 
Of many crowding things that call him 

thence, 
Time, with bent brows, went hurrying on 

his way. 

Slowtow'rdshiscavethe Great Unmov'd 

repair'd, 
And, with his back against the rock, sat 

down 

Outside, half smiling in the pleasant air ; 
And in the lonely silence of the place 
He thus, at length, discours'd unto himself: 

" Orion, ever active and at work, 
Honest and skilful, not to be surpass'd, 
Drew misery on himself and those he lov'd ; 
Wrought his companions' death, and now 

hath found, 

At Artemis' hand, his own. So fares it ever 
With the world's builder. He, from wall 

to beam, 
From pillar to roof, from shade to corporal 

form, 
From the first vague Thought to the Temple 

vast, 

A ceaseless contest with the crowd endures, 
For whom he labors. Why then should 

we move ? 

Our wisdom cannot change whate'er 's de 
creed, 
Nor e'en the acts or thoughts of brainless 

men : 
Why then be mov'd ? Best reason is most 

vain. 
He who will do and suffer, must and 

end. 

Hence, death is not an evil, since it leads 
To somewhat permanent, beyond the noise 
Man maketh on the tabor of his will, 
Until the small round burst, and pale he 

falls. 
His ear is stuff'd with the grave's earth, 

yet feels 

The inaudible whispers of Eternity, 
While Time runs shouting to Oblivion 
'In the upper fields ! I would not swell 

that cry." 

Thus Akinetos sat from day to day, 
Absorb'd in indolent sublimity, 
Reviewing thoughts and knowledge o'e* 
and o'er ; 



RICHARD HENGIST HORNE 



35 



And now he spake, now sang unto himself, 
Now sank to brooding silence. From above, 
While passing, Time the rock touch'd ! 

and it ooz'd 
Petrific drops gently at first and slow. 
Reclining lonely in his fix'd repose, 
The Great Unmov'd unconsciously became 
Attach'd to that he press'd, and gradu 
ally 
While his thoughts drifted to no shore a 

part 

O' the rock. There clung the dead excres 
cence, till 
Strong hands, descended from Orion, 

made 
Large roads, built markets, granaries, and 

steep walls, 
Squaring down rocks for use, and common 
good. 



GENIUS 

FAR out at sea the sun was high, 

While veer'd the wind, and flapp'd the 

sail 

We saw a snow-white butterfly 
Dancing before the fitful gale, 

Far out at sea ! 

The little wanderer, who had lost 
His way, of danger nothing knew ; 

Settled awhile upon the mast, 

Then flutter'd o'er the waters blue, 

Far out at sea. 

Above, there gleam'd the boundless sky ; 

Beneath, the boundless ocean sheen ; 
Between them danced the butterfly, 

The spirit-life of this vast scene, 

Far out at sea. 

The tiny soul then soar'd away, 

Seeking the cloijds on fragile wings, 

Lur'd by the brighter, purer ray 

Which hope's ecstatic morning brings, 

Far out at sea. 

Away he sped with shimmering glee ! 
Scarce seen now lost yet onward 

borne ! 
Night comes ! with wind and rain and 

I he 
No more will dance before the Morn, 
Far out at sea. 



He dies unlike his mates, I ween ; 

Perhaps not sooner, or worse cross 'd ; 
And he hath felt, thought, known, and seen 

A larger life and hope though lost 

Far out at sea I 



PELTERS OF PYRAMIDS 

A SHOAL of idlers, from a merchant craft 
Anchor'd off Alexandria, went ashore, 
And mounting asses in their headlong glee, 
Round Pompey's Pillar rode with hoots and 

taunts, 
As men oft say, " What art thou more than 

we?" 

Next in a boat they floated up the Nile, 
Singing and drinking, swearing senseless 

oaths, 

Shouting, and laughing most derisively 
At all majestic scenes. A bank they reach'd, 
And clambering up, play'd gambols among 

tombs ; 
And in portentous ruins (through whose 

depths, 

The mighty twilight of departed Gods, 
Both sun and moon glanced furtive, as in 

awe) 
They hid, and whoop'd, and spat on sacred 

things. 

At length, beneath the blazing sun they 

lounged 

Near a great Pyramid. Awhile they stood 
With stupid stare, until resentment grew, 
In the recoil of meanness from the vast ; 
And gathering stones, they with coarse 

oaths and jibes 
(As they would say, " What art thou more 

than we?") . 

Pelted the Pyramid ! But soon these men, 
Hot and exhausted, sat them down to 

drink 
Wrangled, smok'd, spat, and laugh'd, and 

drowsily 
Curs'd the bald Pyramid, and fell asleep. 

Night came : a little sand went drift 
ing by 

And morn again was in the soft blue hea 
vens. 

The broad slopes of the shining Pyramid 
Look'd down in their austere simplicity 
Upon the glistening silence of the sands 
Whereon no trace of mortal dust was seea 



DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



SOLITUDE AND THE LILY 

THE LILY 

I BEND above the moving stream, 
And see myself in my own dream, 

Hraven passing, while I do not pass. 
Something divine pertains to me, 
Or I to it; reality 

Escapes me on this liquid glass. 

SOLITUDE 

The changeful clouds that float or poise on 

high, 

Emhlein earth's night and day of history : 
Renew'd for ever, evermore to die. 

Thy life-dream is thy fleeting loveliness ; 
But mine is concentrated consciousness, 
A life apart from pleasure or distress. 
The grandeur of the Whole 
Absorbs my soul, 
While my caves sigh o'er human littleness. 

THE LILY 

Ah, Solitude, 

Of marble Silence fit abode ! 
I do prefer my fading face, 
My loss of loveliness and grace, 

With cloud-dreams ever in my view ; 
Also the hope that other eyes 
May share my rapture in the skies, 
And, if illusion, feel it true. 



THE SLAVE 

A SEA-PIECE, OFF JAMAICA 

BEFORE us in the sultry dawn arose 
Indigo-tinted mountains ; and ere noon 
We near'd an isle that lay like a fes 
toon, 

And shar'd the ocean's glittering repose. 

We saw plantations spotted with white huts ; 
Estates midst orange groves and towering 
trees; 



Rich yellow lawns embrown'd by soft 

degrees ; 
Plots of intense gold freak'd with shady nuts. 

A dead hot silence tranced sea, land, and 

sky : 

And now a long canoe came gliding forth, 
Wherein there sat an old man fierce and 

swarth, 

Tiger-faced, black-fang'd, and with jaun 
diced eye. 

Pure white, with pale blue chequer'd, and 

red fold 
Of head-cloth 'neath straw brim, this 

Master wore ; 
While in the sun-glare stood with high- 

rais'd oar 
A naked Image all of burnisli'd gold. 

Golden his bones high-valued in the mart, 
His minted muscles, and his glossy skin ; 
Golden his life of action but within 

The slave is human in a bleeding heart. 



THE PLOUGH 



A LANDSCAPE IN BERKSHIRE 

ABOVE yon sombre swell of land 

Thou seest the dawn's grave orange hue, 

With one pale streak like yellow sand, 
And ver that a vein of blue. 

The air is cold above the woods ; 

All silent is the earth and sky, 
Except with his own lonely moods 

The blackbird holds a colloquy. 

Over the broad hill creeps a beam, 

Like hope that gilds a good man's brow, 

And now ascends the nostril-stream 
Of stalwart horses come to plough. 

Ye rigid Ploughmen, bear in mind 
Your labor is for future hours ! 

Advance spare not nor look behind : 
Plough deep and straight with all your 
powers. 



DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



37 



Cijomag Hotodl 



FROM "TORRISMOND" 

IN A GARDEN BY MOONLIGHT 

Veronica. Come then, a song ; a winding 

gentle song, 

To lead me into sleep. Let it be low 
As zephyr, telling secrets to his rose, 
For 1 would hear the murmuring of my 

thoughts ; 
And more of voice than of that other 

music 
That grows around the strings of quivering 

lutes ; 
But most of thought ; for with my mind I 

listen, 
And when the leaves of sound are shed upon 

it, 
If there 's no seed remembrance grows not 

there. 
So life, so death ; a song, and then a 

dream ! 

Begin before another dewdrop fall 
From the soft hold of these disturbed 

flowers, 

For sleep is filling up my senses fast, 
And from these words I sink. 

SONG 

How many times do I love thee, dear ? 
Tell me how many thoughts there be 
In the atmosphere 
Of a new-fall'n year, 
Whose white and sable hours appear 

The latest flake of Eternity : 
So many times do I love thee, dear. 

How many times do I love again ? 
Tell me how many beads there are 
In a silver chain 
Of evening rain, 
Unravell'd from the tumbling main, 

And threading the eye of a yellow star : 
So many times do I love again. 

Elvira. She sees no longer : leave her 

then alone, 
Encompass'd by this round and moony 

night. 

A rose-leaf for thy lips, and then good 
night : 

So life, so death ; a song, and then a 
dream ! 



DREAM-PEDLARY 

IF there were dreams to sell, 

What would you buy ? 
Some cost a parting bell ; 

Some a light sign, 

That shakes from Life's fresh crown 
Only a rose-leaf down. 
If there were dreams to sell, 
Merry and sad to tell, 
And the crier rung the bell, 

What would you buy ? 

A cottage lone and still, 

With bowers nigh, 
Shadowy, my woes to still, 

Until I die. 

Such pearl from Life's fresh crown 
Fain would I shake me down. 
Were dreams to have at will, 
This would best heal my ill, 

This would I buy. 

But there were dreams to sell 

111 didst thou buy ; 
Life is a dream, they tell, 

Waking, to die. 
Dreaming a dream to prize, 
Is wishing ghosts to rise ; 
And, if I had the spell 
To call the buried well, 

Which one would I ? 

If there are ghosts to raise, 

What shall I call 
Out of hell's murky haze, 

Heaven's blue pall ? 
Raise my lov'd long-lost boy 
To lead me to his joy. 
There are no ghosts to raise ; 
Out of death lead no ways ; 

Vain is the call. 

Know'st thou not ghosts to sue ? 

No love thou hast. 
Else lie, as I will do, 

And breathe thy last 
So out of Life's fresh crown 
Fall like a rose-leaf down. 
Thus are the ghosts to woo ; 
Thus are all dreams made true. 

Ever to last I 



DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



BALLAD OF HUMAN LIFE 

. we wero girl and boy together, 

We toss'd about the flowers 

And wreath'd the blushing hours 
Into a posy green and sweet. 

I sought the youngest, best, 

And never was at rest 
Till I had laid them at thy fairy feet. 
But the days of childhood they were fleet, 

And the blooming sweet-briar-breath'd 
weather, 

When we were boy and girl together. 

Then we were lad and lass together, 

And sought the kiss of night 

Before we felt aright,. 
Sitting and singing soft and sweet. t 

The dearest thought of heart 

With thee 't was joy to part, 
And the greater half was thine, as meet. 
Still my eyelid 's dewy, my veins they beat 

At the starry summer-evening weather, 

When we were lad and lass together. 

And we are man and wife together, 
Although thy breast, once bold 
With song, be clos'd and cold 
Beneath flowers' roots and birds' light feet. 
Yet sit I by thy tomb, 
And dissipate the gloom 
With songs of loving faith and sorrow sweet. 
And fate and darkling grave kind dreams 

do cheat, 
That, while fair life, young hope, despair 

and death are, 

; We 're boy and girl, and lass and lad, and 
man and wife together. 



SONGS FROM "DEATH'S TEST- 
BOOK" 

I 

TO SEA, TO SEA ! 

To sea, to sea I The calm is o'er ; 

The wanton water leaps in sport, 
And rattles down the pebbly shore ; 

The dolphin wheels, the sea-cows snort, 
A.id unseen Mermaids' pearly song 
t/oines bubbling up, the weeds among. 

Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar : 

To sea, to sea ! the calm is o'er. 



To sea, to sea ! our wide-wing'd bark 
Shall billowy cleave its sunny way, 

And with its shadow, fleet and dark, f 
Break the cav'd Tritons' azure day, 

Like mighty eagle soaring light 

O'er antelopes on Alpine height. 

The anchor heaves, the ship swings free, 
The sails swell full. To sea, to sea ! 



II 



DIRGE 

IF thou wilt ease thine heart 
Of love and all its smart, 

Then sleep, dear, sleep ; 
And not a sorrow 

Hang any tear on your eye-lashes ; 

Lie still and deep, 
Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes 
The rim o' the sun to-morrow, 
In eastern sky. 

But wilt thou cure thine heart 
Of love and all its smart, 

Then die, dear, die ; 
'Tis deeper, sweeter, 
Than on a rose bank to lie dreaming 

With folded eye ; 
And then alone, amid the beaming 
Of love's stars, thou 'It meet her 
In eastern sky. 

Ill 
ATHULF'S DEATH SONG 

A CYPRESS-BOUGH, and a rose-wreath sweety 
A wedding-robe, and a winding-sheet, 

A bridal-bed and a bier. 
Thine be the kisses, maid, 

And smiling Love's alarms ; 
And thou, pale youth, be laid 
In the grave's cold arms. 
Each in his own charms, 

Death and Hymen both are here j 
So up with scythe and torch, 
And to the old church porch, 
While all the bells ring clear : 
And rosy, rosy the bed shall bloom, 
And earthy, earthy heap up the toinb. 

Now tremble dimples on your cheek, 
Sweet be your lips to taste and speak, 
For he who kisses is near : 



THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES 



39 



By her the bridegod fair, 

In youthful power and force ; 
By him the grizard bare, 
Pale knight on a pale horse, 
To woo him to a corpse. 

Death and Hymen both are here ; 
So up with scythe and torch, 
And to the old church porch, 
While all the bells ring clear : 
And rosy, rosy the bed shall bloom, 
And earthy, earthy heap up the tomb. 

IV 
SECOND DIRGE 

WE do lie beneath the grass 

In the moonlight, in the shade 
Of the yew-tree. They that pass 
Hear us not. We are afraid 
They would envy our delight, 
In our graves by glow-worm night. 
Come follow us, and smile as we ; 

We sail to the rock in the ancient 

waves, 
Where the snow falls by thousands into the 

sea, 

And the drown'd and the shipwreck'd 
have happy graves. 



SONGS FROM "THE BRIDES' 
TRAGEDY " 



HESPERUS SINGS 

POOR old pilgrim Misery, 

Beneath the silent moon he sate, 
A-listening to the screech owl's cry 

And the cold wind's goblin prate ; 
Beside him lay his staff of yew 

With wither'd willow twin'd, 
His scant gray hair all wet with dew, 

His cheeks with grief ybrin'd ; 
And his cry it was ever, alack ! 
Alack, and woe is me ! 



Anon a wanton imp astray 

His piteous moaning hears, 
And from his bosom steals away 

His rosary of tears : 
With his plunder fled that urchin elf, 

And hid it in your eyes ; 
Then tell me back the stolen pelf, 

Give up the lawless prize ; 

Or your cry shall be ever, alack I 
Alack, and woe is me ! 

II 
LOVE GOES A-HAWKING 

A HO ! A ho ! 
Love's horn doth blow, 
And he will out a-hawking go. 
His shafts are light as beauty's sighs, 
And bright as midnight's brightest eye$ 

And round his starry way 
The swan-wing'd horses of the skies, 
With summer's music in their manes, 
Curve their fair necks to zephyr's reins, 
And urge their graceful play. 

A ho ! A ho ! 
Love's horn doth blow, 
And he will out a-hawking go. 
The sparrows flutter round his wrist, 
The feathery thieves that Venus kist 
And taught their morning song, 
The linnets seek the airy list, 
And swallows too, small pets of Spring, 
Beat back the gale with swifter wing, 
And dart and wheel along. 

A ho ! A ho ! 
Love's horn doth blow, 
And he will out a-hawking go. 
Now woe to every gnat that skips 
To filch the fruit of ladies' lips, 

His felon blood is shed ; 
And woe to flies, whose airy ships 
On beauty cast their anchoring bite, 
And bandit wasp, that naughty wight, 
Whose sting is slaughter-red. 



DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



flo&crt 



THE SONG OF THE WESTERN 
MEN 

A GOOD sword and a trusty hand ! 

A merry heart and true ! 
King James's men shall understand 

What Cornish lads can do. 

And have they fix'd the where and when ? 

And shall Trelawny die ? 
Here 's twenty thousand Cornish men 

Will know the reason why ! 

Out spake their captain brave and bold, 

A merry wight was he : 
u If London Tower were Michael's hold, 

We '11 set Trelawny free ! 

We '11 cross the Tamar, land to land, 

The Severn is no stay, 
With ' one and all, ' and hand in hand, 

And who shall bid us nay ? 

" And when we come to London Wall, 

A pleasant sight to view, 
Come forth ! come forth, ye cowards all, 

Here 's men as good as you ! 

" Trelawny he 's in keep and hold, 

Trelawny he may die ; 
But here 's twenty thousand Cornish bold, 

Will know the reason why ! " 

MAWGAN OF MELHUACH 

'TWAS a fierce night when old Mawgan 

died, 

Men shudder'd to hear the rolling tide : 
The wreckers fled fast from the awful shore, 
They had heard strange voices amid the 

roar. 

"Out with the boat there," some one cried, 
" Will he never come ? we shall lose the tide : 
His^ berth is trim and his cabin stor'd, 
He 's a weary long time coming on board." 

The old man struggled upon the bed : 
He knew the words that the voices said ; 
Wildly he shriek'd as his eyes grew dim, 
He was dead ! he was dead ! when I bur 
ied him." 



Kark yet again to the devilish roar, 
" He was nimbler once with a ship on shore ; 
Come ! come ! old man, 't is a vain delay, 
We must make the offing by break of day." 

Hard was the struggle, but at the last, 
With a stormy pang old Mawgan past, 
And away, away, beneath their sight, 
Gleani'd the red sail at pitch of night. 

FEATHERSTONE'S DOOM 

TWIST thou and twine ! in light and gloom 

A spell is on thine hand ; 
The wind shall be thy changeful loom, 

Thy web the shifting sand. 

Twine from this hour, in ceaseless toil, 

On Blackrock's sullen shore ; 
Till cordage of the sand shall coil 

Where crested surges roar. 

'T is for that hour, when, from the wave, 

Near voices wildly cried ; 
When thy stern hand no succor gave, 

The cable at thy side. 

Twist thou and twine ! in light and gloom 

The spell is on thine hand ; 
The wind shall be thy changeful loom, 

Thy web the shifting sand. 

"PATER VESTER PASCIT ILLA" 

OUR bark is on the waters : wide around 
The wandering wave ; above, the lonely sky. 
Hush ! a young sea-bird floats, and that 

quick cry 
Shrieks to the levell'd weapon]s echoing 

sound, 
Grasps its lank wing, and on, with reckless 

bound ! 

Yet, creature of the surf, a sheltering breast 
To-night shall haunt in vain thy far-off nest, 
A call unanswer'd search the rocky ground. 
Lord of leviathan ! when Ocean heard 
Thy gathering voice, and sought his native 

breeze ; 
When whales first plunged with life, and J 

the proud deep 
Felt unborn tempests heave in troubled 

sleep ; 



ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER 









Thou didst provide, e'en for this nameless 

bird, 
Home, and a natural love, amid the surging 

seas. 

THE SILENT TOWER OF 
BOTTREAU 

TINTADGEL bells ring o'er the tide, 
The boy leans on his vessel side ; 
He hears that sound, and dreams of home 
Soothe the wild orphan of the foam. 
" Come to thy God in time ! " 
Thus saith their pealing chime 
Youth, manhood, old age past, 
" Come to thy God at last." 

But why are Bottreau's ech'oes still ? 
Her tower stands proudly on the hill ; 
Yet the strange chough that home hath 

found, 
The lamb lies sleeping on the ground. 

" Come to thy God in time ! " 

Should be her answering chime : 

Come to thy God at last I " 

Should echo on the blast 

The ship rode down with courses free, 
The daughter of a distant sea : 
Her sheet was loose, her anchor stor'd, 
The merry Bottreau bells on board. 

" Come to thy God in time ! " 

Rung out Tintadgel chime ; 

Youth, manhood, old age past, 

" Come to thy God at last ! " 

The pilot heard his native bells 

Hang on the breeze in fitful swells ; 

" Thank God," with reverent brow he cried, 

" We make the shore with evening's tide." 

" Come to thy God in time ! " 

It was his marriage chime : 

Youth, manhood, old age past, 

His bell must ring at last. 

" Thank God, thou whining knave, on land, 
But thank, at sea, the steersman's hand," 
The captain's voice above the gale : 
u Thank the good ship and ready sail." 

" Come to thy God in time ! " 

Sad grew the boding chime : 



" Come to thy God at last I " 
Boom'd heavy on the blast. 

Uprose that sea ! as if it belli 
The mighty Master's signal-word : 
What thrills the captain's whitening lip ? 
The death-groans of his sinking ship. 

" Come to thy God in time 1 ?> 

Swung deep the funeral chime : 

Grace, mercy, kindness past, 

" Come to thy God at last 1 " 

Long did the rescued pilot tell 
When gray hairs o'er his forehead fell, 
While those around would heai and weep 
That fearful judgment of the deep. 

" Come to thy God in time ! " 

He read his native chime : 

Youth, manhood, old age past, 

His bell rung out at last. 

Still when the storm of Bottreau's waves 
Is wakening in his weedy caves, 
Those bells, that sullen surges hide. 
Peal their deep notes beneath the tide : 

" Come to thy God in time ! " 

Thus saith the ocean chime : 

Storm, billow, whirlwind past, 

" Come to thy God at last ! " 

TO ALFRED TENNYSON 

THEY told me in their shadowy phrase, 

Caught from a tale gone by, 
That Arthur, King of Cornish praise, 

Died not, and would not die. 

Dreams had they, that in fairy bowers 
. Their living warrior lies, 
Or wears a garland of the flowers 
That grow in Paradise. 

I read the rune with deeper ken, 
And thus the myth I trace : 

A bard should rise, mid future men, 
The mightiest of his race. 

He would great Arthur's deeds rehearse 

On gray Dundagel's shore ; 
And so the King in laurell'd verse 

Shall live, and die no more I 



DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



Uptton 

(EDWARD LYTTON BULWER) 



THE CARDINAL'S SOLILOQUY 

FROM "RICHELIEU; OR, THE CONSPI 
RACY " 

Rich, [reading']. " In silence, and at night, 

the Conscience feels 
That life should soar to nobler ends than 

Power." 

So sayest thoii, sage and sober moralist ! 
But wert thou tried ? Sublime Philosophy, 
Thou art the Patriarch's ladder, reaching 

heaven, 
And bright with bet&oning angels but, 

alas! 
We see thee, like tbe Patriarch, but in 

dreams, 
By the first step, dull-slumbering on the 

earth. 

I am not happy ! with the Titan's lust 
I woo'd a goddess, and I clasp a cloud. 
When I am dust, my name shall, like a star, 
Shine through wan space, a glory, and a 

prophet 
Whereby pale seers shall from their aery 

towers 

Con all the ominous signs, benign or evil, 
That make the potent astrologue of kings. 
But shall the Future judge me by the ends 
That I have wrought, or by the dubious 

means 
Through which the stream of my renown 

hath run 

Into the many-voiced uufathorn'd Time ? 
Foul in its bed lie weeds, and heaps of slime, 
And with its waves when sparkling in 

the sun, 

Ofttimes the secret rivulets that swell 
Its might of waters blend the hues of 

blood. 

Yet are my sins not those of Circumstance, 
That all-pervading atmosphere, wherein 
Our spirits, like the unsteady lizard, take 
The tints that color, and the food that nur 
tures ? 

O I ye, whose hour-glass shifts its tran 
quil sands 

In the unvex'd silence of a student's cell ; 
Te, whose untempted hearts have never 

toss'd 



Upon the dark and stormy tides where life 
Gives battle to the elements, and man 
Wrestles with man for some slight plank, 

whose weight 

Will bear but one, while round the desper 
ate wretch 

The hungry billows roar, and the fierce Fate, 
Like some huge monster, dim-seen through 

the surf, 

Waits him who drops ; ye safe and for 
mal men, 
Who write the deeds, and with unfeverish 

hand 
Weigh in nice scales the motives of the 

Great, 

Ye cannot know what ye have never tried ! 
History preserves only the fleshless bones 
Of what we are, and by the mocking skull 
The would-be wise pretend to guess the 

features. 

Without the roundness and the glow of life 
How hideous is the skeleton ! Without 
The colorings and humanities that clothe 
Our errors, the anatomists of schools 
Can make our memory hideous. 

I have wrought 

Great uses out of evil tools, and they 
In the time to come may bask beneath the 

light 

Which I have stolen from the angry gods, 
And warn their sons against the glorious 

theft, 

Forgetful of the darkness which it broke. 
I have shed blood, but I have had no foes 
Save those the State had ; if my wrath was 

deadly, 

'T is that I felt my country in my veins, 
And smote her sons as Brutus smote his 

own. 
And yet I am not happy : blanch'd and 

sear'd 

Before my time ; breathing an air of hate, 
And seeing daggers in the eyes of men, 
And wasting powers that shake the thrones 

of earth 

In contest with the insects ; bearding kings 
And brav'd by lackies ; murder at my bed ; 
And lone amidst the multitudinous web, 
With the dread Three, that are the Fates 

who hold 



EDWARD, LORD LYTTON 



43 



The woof and shears the Monk, the Spy, 

the Headsman. 
And this is power ? Alas ! I am not happy. 

[Afler a pause. 

And yet the Nile is fretted by the weeds 
Its rising roots not up ; but never yet 
J)id one least barrier by a ripple vex 
MY onward tide, unswept in sport away. 
Am I so ruthless then that I do hate 
Them who hate me ? Tush, tush 1 I do not 

hate ; 
Kay, I forgive. The Statesman writes the 

doom, 

But the Priest sends the blessing. I for 
give them, 

But I destroy ; forgiveness is mine own, 
Destruction is the State's ! For private life, 
Scripture the guide for public, Machiavel. 
Would fortune serve me if the Heaven were 

wroth ? 
* For chance makes half my greatness. I 

was born 
jneath the aspect of a bright-eyed star, 

my triumphant adamant of soul 
but the fix'd persuasion of success. 
Ah ! here ! that spasm ! again ! 

How Life and Death 
Do wrestle for me momently ! And yet 
The King looks pale. I shall outlive the 

King! 
And then, thou insolent Austrian who 

didst gibe 

At the ungainly, gaunt, and daring lover, 
Sleeking thy looks to silken Buckingham, 
Thou shalt no matter ! I have outliv'd 

love. 

beautiful, all golden, gentle youth ! 
Making thy palace in the careless front 
And hopeful eye of man, ere yet the soul 
Hath lost the memories which (so Plato 

dream'd) 
Breath'd glory from the earlier star it 

dwelt in 
Oh, for one gale from thine exulting morn- 

in g 

Stirring amidst the roses, where of old 
Love shook the dew-drops from his glan 
cing hair ! 

Could I recall the past, or had not set 
The prodigal treasures of the bankrupt soul 



In one slight bark upon the shoreless sea ; 
The yoked steer, after his day of toil, 
Forgets the goad, and rests : to me alike 
Or day or night Ambition baa no rest I 
Shall I resign ? who can resign himself ? 
For custom is ourself ; as drink and food 
Become our bone and tiesh, the aliment* 
Nurturing our nobler part, the mind, 

thoughts, dreams, 

Passions, and aims, in the revolving cycle 
Of the great alchemy, at length are made 
Our mind itself ; and yet the sweets of 

leisure, 

An honor'd home far from these base in 
trigues, 

An eyrie on the heaven-kiss'd heights of 
wisdom. 

[Taking up the book. 

Speak to me, moralist 1 I '11 heed thy 
counsel. 



WHEN STARS ARE IN THE 
QUIET SKIES 

WHEN stars are in the quiet skies, 

Then most I pine for thee ; 
Bend on me then thy tender eyes, 

As stars look on the sea ! 
For thoughts, like waves that glide by night, 

Are stillest when they shine ; 
Mine earthly love lies hush'd in light 

Beneath the heaven of thine. 

There is an hour when angels keep 

Familiar watch o'er men, 
When coarser souls are wrapp'd in sleep 

Sweet spirit, meet me then ! 
There is an hour when holy dreams 

Through slumber fairest glide ; 
And in that mystic hour it seems 

Thou shouldst be by my side. 

My thoughts of thee too sacred are 

For daylight's common beam : 
I can but know thee as my star, 

My angel and my dream ; 
When stars are in the quiet skies, 

Then most I pine for thee ; 
Bend on me then thy tender eyes, 

As stars look on the sea ! 



NOTB. Another lyric by Lord Lytton will be found In the BXOOHAPKICAI Norm. 



44 



DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



iDilliam tf&monltftounc 3Hptoim 



THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE 

COME hither, Evan Cameron ! 

Come, stand beside my knee : 
I hear the river roaring down 

Towards the wintry sea. 
There 's shouting on the mountain-side, 

There 's war within the blast j 
Old faces look upon me, 

Old forms go trooping past : 
I hear the pibroch wailing 

Amidst the din of fight, 
And my dim spirit wakes again 

Upon the verge of night. 

T was I that led the Highland host 

Through wild Lochaber's snows, 
What time the plaided clans came down 

To battle with Montrose. 
I 've told thee how the Southrons fell 

Beneath the broad claymore, 
And how we smote the Campbell clan 

By Inverlochy's shore. 
I 've told thee how we swept Dundee, 

And tam'd the Lindsays' pride ; 
But never have I told thee yet 

How the great Marquis died. 

A traitor sold him to his foes ; 

O deed of deathless shame ! 
I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet 

With one of Assynt's name 
Be it upon the mountain's side, 

Or yet within the glen, 
Stand he in martial gear alone, 

Or back'd by armed men 
Face him, as thou wouldst face the man 

Who wrong'd thy sire's renown ; 
Remember of what blood thou art, 

And strike the caitiff down ! 

They brought him to the Watergate, 

Hani bound with hempen span, 
As though they held a lion there, 

And not a fenceless man. 
They set him high upon a cart, 

The hangman rode below, 
They drew his hands behind his back 

And bar'd his noble brow. 
Then, as a hound is slipp'd from leash, 

They cheer'd the common throng, 



And blew the note with yell and shout 
And bade him pass along. 

It would have made a brave man's heart 

Grow sad and sick that day, 
To watch the keen malignant eyes 

Bent down on that array. 
There stood the Whig west-country lords, 

In balcony and bow ; 
There sat their gaunt and wither'd dames, 

And their daughters all a-row. 
And every open window 

Was full as full might be 
With black-rob'd Covenanting carles, 

That goodly sport to see ! 

But when he came, though pale and wan, 

He look'd so great and high, 
So noble was his manly front, 

So calm his steadfast eye, 
The rabble rout forbore to shout, 

And each man held his breath, 
For well they knew the hero's soul 

Was face to face with death. 
And then a mournful shudder 

Through all the people crept, 
And some that came to scoff at him 

Now turn'd aside and wept. 

But onwards always onwards, 

In silence and in gloom, 
The dreary pageant labor'd, 

Till it reach'd the house of doom. 
Then first a woman's voice was heard 

In jeer and laughter loud, 
And an angry cry and a hiss arose 

From the heart of the tossing crowd , 
Then as the Graeme look'd upwards, 

He saw the ugly smile 
Of him who sold his king for gold, 

The master-fiend Argyle ! 

The Marquis gaz'd a moment, 

And nothing did he say, 
But the cheek of Argyle grew ghastly pale 

And he turn'd his eyes away. 
The painted harlot by his side, 

She shook through every limb, 
For a roar like thunder swept the street^ 

And hands were clench'd at him ; 
And a Saxon soldier cried aloud, 

" Back, coward, from thy place 1 



WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN 



For seven long years thou hast not dar'd 
To look him in the face." 

Had I been there with sword in hand, 

And fifty Camerons by, 
That day through high Dunedin's streets 

Had peal'd the slogan-cry. 
Not all their troops of trampling horse, 

Nor might of mailed men, 
Not all the rebels in the south 

Had borne us backwards then ! 
Once more his foot on Highland heath 

Had trod as free as air, 
Or I, and all who bore my name, 

Been laid around him there ! 

It might not be. They placed him next 

Within the solemn hall, 
Where once the Scottish kings were 
thron'd 

Amidst their nobles all. 
But there was dust of vulgar feet 

On that polluted floor, 
And perjur'd traitors fill'd the place 

Where good men sate before. 
With savage glee came Warristoun 

To read the murderous doom ; 
And then uprose the great Moiitrose 

In the middle of the room. 

" Now, by my faith as belted knight, 

And by the name I bear, 
And by the bright Saint Andrew's cress 

That waves above us there, 
Yea, by a greater, mightier oath 

And oh, that such should be ! 
By that dark stream of royal blood 

That lies 'twixt you and me, 
I have not sought in battle-field 

A wreath of such renown, 
Nor dar'd I hope on my dying day 

To win the martyr's crown ! 

u There is a chamber far away 

Where sleep the good and brave, 
But a better place ye have uam'd for 
me 

Than by my father's grave. 
For truth and right, 'gainst treason's 
might, 

This hand hath always striven, 
And ye raise it up for a witness still 

In the eye of earth and heaven. 
Then nail my head on yonder tower, 

Give every town a limb, 



And God who made shall gather them : 
I go from you to Him 1 " 

The morning dawn'd full darkly, 

The rain came flashing down, 
And the jagged streak of the levin-belt 

Lit up the gloomy town : 
The thunder crash'd across the heaven, 

The fatal hour was conn- ; 
Yet aye broke in with muffled beat 

The 'larum of the drum. 
There was madness on the earth below 

And anger in the sky, 
And young and old, and rich and poor, 

Came forth to see him die. 

Ah, God ! that ghastly gibbet ! 

How dismal 't is to see 
The great tall spectral skeleton, 

The ladder and the tree ! 
Hark ! hark ! it is the clash of arms 

The bells begin to toll - 
"He is coming ! he is coming ! 

God's mercy on his soul ! " 
One last long peal of thunder : 

The clouds are clear'd away, 
And the glorious sun once more looks 
down 

Amidst the dazzling day. 

" He is coming ! he is coming ! " 

Like a bridegroom from his room, 
Came the hero from his prison 

To the scaffold and the doom. 
There was glory on his forehead, 

There was lustre in his eye, 
And he never walk'd to battle 

More proudly than to die : 
There was colo^ in his visage, 

Though the cheeks of all were wan, 
And they marvell'd as they saw him pass, 

That great and goodly man ! 

He mounted up the scaffold, 

And he turnM him to the crowd ; 
But they dar'd not trust the people, 

So he might not speak aloud. 
But he look'd upon the heavens, 

And they were clear and blue, 
And in the liquid ether 

The eye of God shone through; 
Yet a black and murky battlement 

Lay resting on the hill, 
As though the thunder slept within 

All else was calm and stilL 



DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS 



The grim Geneva ministers 

With anxious scowl drew near, 
As you have seen the ravens flock 

Around the dying deer. 
He would not deign them word nor sign, 

But alone he bent the knee, 
And veil'd his face for Christ's dear 
grace 

Beneath the gallows-tree. 
Then radiant and serene he rose, 

And cast his cloak away : 
For he had ta'en his latest look 

Of earth and sun and day. 

A beam of light fell o'er him, 

Like a glory round the shriven, 
And he clirnb'd the lofty ladder 

As it were the path to heaven. 
Then came a flash from out the cloud, 

And a stunning thunder-roll ; 
And no man dar'd to look aloft, 

For fear was on every soul. 
There was another heavy sound, 

A hush and than a groan ; 
And darkness swept across the sky 

The work of death was done ! 



MASSACRE OF THE MACPHER- 
SON 

FHAIRSHON swore a feud 

Against the clan M'Tavish 
March'd into their land 

To murder and to rafish ; 
For he did resolve 

To extirpate the vipers, 
With four-and-twenty men, 

And five-and-thirty pipers. 

But when he had gone 

Half-way down Strath-Canaan, 
Of his fighting tail 

Just three were remaiuin'. 
They were all he had 

To back him in ta battle : 
All the rest had gone 

Off to drive ta cattle. 

" Fery coot ! " cried Fhairshon 
So my clan disgraced is ; 



Lads, we '11 need to fight 
Pefore we touch ta peasties. 

Here 's Mhic-Mac-Metlmsaleh 
Coming wi' his f assals 

Gillies seventy-three, 

And sixty Dhuine'wassels 1 " 

" Coot tay to you, sir ! 

Are you not ta Fhairshon ? 
Was you coming here 

To visit any person ? 
You are a plackguard, sir ? 

It is now six hundred 
Coot long years, and more, 

Since my glen was plunder'd. n 

" Fat is tat you say ? 

Dar you cock your peaver ? 
I will teach you, sir, 

Fat is coot pehavior ! 
You shall not exist 

For another day more ; 
I will shot you, sir, 

Or stap you with my claymore ! " 

" I am f ery glad 

To learn what you mention, 
Since I can prevent 

Any such intention." 
So Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh 

Gave some warlike howls, 
Trew his skhian-dhu, 

An' stuck it in his powels. 

In this fery way 

Tied ta faliant Fhairshon, 
Who was always thought 

A superior person. 
Fhairshon had a son, 

Who married Noah's daughter, 
And nearly spoil'd ta flood 

By trinking up ta water 

Which he would have done, 

I at least believe it, 
Had ta mixture peen 

Only half Glenlivet. 
This is all my tale : 

Sirs, I hope 't is new t' ye ! 
Here 's your fery good healths. 

And tainn ta whusky tuty 1 



THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK 



47 



POETS OF QUALITY 



Cf)onm# fiotoc peacock 



THE MEN OF GOTHAM 

LMEN three ! what men be ye ? 
Gotham's three Wise Men we be. 
tither in your bowl so free ? 
To rake the moon from out the sea. 
bowl goes trim ; the moon doth 

shine ; 

And our ballast is old wine : 
And your ballast is old wine. 

art thou, so fast adrift ? 
I am he they call Old Care, 
[ere on board we will thee lift. 
No : I may not enter there. 
~~ jrefore so ? 'T is Jove's decree 
In a bowl Care may not be : 
In a bowl Care may not be. 

ir ye not the waves that roll ? 
No : in charmed bowl we swim. 

it the charm that floats the bowl ? 
Water may not pass the brim. 

bowl goes trim ; the moon doth 

shine ; 

And our ballast is old wine : 
And your ballast is old wine. 



THE WAR-SONG OF DINAS 
VAWR 

THE mountain sheep are sweeter, 
But the valley sheep are fatter ; 
We therefore deenrd it meeter 
To carry off the latter. 
We made an expedition ; 
We met an host and quell'd it ; 
We forced a strong position 
And kill'd the men who held it. 

On Dyfed's richest valley, 

Where herds of kine were browsing, 

We made a mighty sally, 

To furnish our carousing. 

Fierce warriors rush'd to meet us ; 

We met them, and o'erthrew them : 

They struggled hard to beat us, 

But we conquer'd them, and slew them. 



As we drove our prize at leisure, 
The king march'd forth to catch us j 
His rage surpass'd all measure, 
But his people could not match us. 
He fled to his hall-pillars ; 
And, ere our force we led off, 
Some sack'd his house and cellars, 
While others cut his head off. 

We there, in strife bewildering, 
Spilt blood enough to swim in : 
We orphan'd many children 
And widow'd many women. 
The eagles and the ravens 
We glutted with our foemen : 
The heroes and the cravens, 
The spearmen and the bowmen. 

We brought away from battle, 

And much their land bemoan'd them, 

Two thousand head of cattle 

And the head of him who own'd them : 

Ednyfed, King of Dyfed, 

His head was borne before us ; 

His wine and beasts supplied our feasts, 

And his overthrow, our chorus. 

MARGARET LOVE PEACOCK 

THREE YEARS OLD 

LONG night succeeds thy little day : 
O, blighted blossom ! can it be 

That this gray stone and grassy clay 
Have clos'd our anxious care of thee ? 

The half-form'd speech of artless thought, 
That spoke a mind beyond thy years, 

The song, the dance by Nature taught, 
The sunny smiles, the transient tears, 

The symmetry of face and form, 
The eye with light and life replete, 

The little heart so fondly warm, 
The voice so musically sweet, 

These, lost to hope, in memory yet 

Around the hearts that lov'd thee cling, 

Shadowing with long and vain regret 
The too fair promise of thy Spring. 



POETS OF QUALITY 



HDintljrop 



THE VICAR 

SOME years ago, ere time and taste 

Had turn'd our parish topsy-turvy, 
When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste, 

And roads as little known as scurvy, 
The man who lost his way between 

St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket 
Was always shown across the green, 

And guided to the parson's wicket. 

Back flew the bolt of lissom lath ; 

Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, 
Led the lorn traveller up the path 

Through clean-clipp'd rows of box and 

myrtle ; 
And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, 

Upon the parlor steps collected, 
Wagg'd all their tails, and seem'd to say, 

" Our master knows you ; you 're ex 
pected." 

Up rose the reverend Doctor Brown, 

Up rose the doctor's " winsome marrow ; " 
The lady laid her knitting down, 

Her husband clasp'd his ponderous Bar 
row. 
Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed, 

Pundit or papist, saint or sinner, 
He found a stable for his steed, 

And welcome for himself, and dinner. 

If, when he reach'd his journey's end, 

And warm'd himself in court or college, 
He had not gain'd an honest friend, 

And twenty curious scraps of knowledge ; 
If he departed as he came, 

With no new light on love or liquor, 
Good sooth, the traveller was to blame, 

And not the vicarage, nor the vicar. 

His talk was like a stream which runs 

With rapid change from rocks to roses ; 
It slipp'd from politics to puns ; 

It pass'd from Mahomet to Moses ; 
Beginning with the laws which keep 

The planets in their radiant courses, 
And ending with some precept deep 

For dressing eels or shoeing horses. 

He was a shrewd and sound divine, 
Of loud dissent the mortal terror ; 



And when, by dint of page and line, 
He 'stablish'd truth or startled error, 

The Baptist found him far too deep, 
The Deist sigh'd with saving sorrow. 

And the lean Levite went to sleep 

And dream'd of tasting pork to-morrow. 

His sermon never said or show'd 

That earth is foul, that heaven is gracious. 
Without refreshment on the road 

From Jerome, or from Athanasius ; 
And sure a righteous zeal inspir'd 

The hand and head that penn'd and 

plann'd them, 
For all who understood admir'd, 

And some who did not understand them. 

He wrote too, in a quiet way, 

Small treatises, and smaller verses, 
And sage remarks on chalk and clay, 

And hints to noble lords and nurses ; 
True histories of last year's ghost ; 

Lines to a ringlet or a turban ; 
And trifles to the Morning Post, 

And nothings for Sylvanus Urban. 

He did not think all mischief fair, 

Although he had a knack of joking ; 
He did not make himself a bear, 

Although he had a taste for smoking ; 
And when religious sects ran mad, 

He held, in spite of all his learning. 
That if a man's belief is bad, 

It will not be improv'd by burning. 

And he was kind, and lov'd to sit 

In the low hut or garnish'd cottage, 
And praise the farmer's homely wit, 

And share the widow's homelier pottage, 
At his approach complaint grew mild, 

And when his hand unbarr'd the shutter 
The clammy lips of fever smil'd 

The welcome which they could not utter. 

He always had a tale for me 

Of Julius Csesar or of Venus ; 
From him I learn'd the rule of three, 

Cat's-cradle, leap-frog, and Qu(e genus. 
I used to singe his powder'd wig, 

To steal the staff he put such trust in, 
And make the puppy dance a jig 

When he began to quote Augustine. 



PRAED LANGHORNE 



49 



Alack, the change ! In vain I look 

For haunts in which my boyhood trifled 
The level lawn, the trickling brook, 

The trees I climb'd, the beds I rifled. 
The church is larger than before, 

You reach it by a carriage entry : 
It holds three hundred people more, 

And pews are fitted for the gentry. 

Sit in the vicar's seat : you '11 hear 
The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, 
r hose hand is white, whose voice is 

clear, 

Whose tone is very Ciceronian. 
r here is the old man laid ? Look 

down, 

And construe on the slab before you : 
^Hicjacet Gulielmm Brown, 
Vir nulld non donandus lauro." 

THE NEWLY-WEDDED 

Now the rite is duly done, 
Now the word is spoken, 



And the spell has made us one 
Which may ne'er be broken ; 

Rest we, dearest, in our home, 
Roam we o'er the heather : 

We shall rest, and we shall roam, 
Sliall we not ? together. 

From this hour the summer rose 

Sweeter breathes to charm us ; 
From this hour the winter snows 

Lighter fall to harm us : 
Fair or foul on land or sea 

Come the wind or weather, 
Best and worst, whate'er they be, 

We shall share together. 

Death, who friend from friend can part, 

Brother rend from brother, 
Shall but link us, heart and heart, 

Closer to each other : 
We will call his anger play, 

Deem his dart a feather, 
When we meet him on our way 

Hand in hand together. 



THEOCRITUS 

'HEOCRITUS ! Theocritus ! ah, thou hadst 

pleasant dreams 
)f the crystal spring Burinna, and the 

Haleus' murmuring streams ; 
Physcus, and Neaethus, and fair Are- 

thusa's fount, 
Lacinion's beetling crag, and Latymnus' 

woody mount ; 
)f the fretted rocks and antres hoar that 

overhang the sea, 
id the sapphire sky and thymy plains of 

thy own sweet Sicily ; 
of the nymphs of Sicily, that dwelt in 

oak and pine 
jocritus ! Theocritus ! what pleasant 
dreams were thine ! 

of the merry rustics who tend the goats 

and sheep, 
ind the maids who trip to milk the cows 

at morning's dewy peep, 
>f Clearista with her locks of brightest 

sunny hair, 



Xangfjornc 



And the saucy girl Kunica, and sweet Chloe 
kind and fair ; 

And of those highly favor'd ones, Endymion 
and Adonis, 

Loved by Selena the divine, and the beau 
teous Dionis ; 

Of the silky-hair'd caprella, and the gentle 
lowing kine 

Theocritus ! Theocritus ! what pleasant 
dreams were thine ! 

Of the spring time, and the summer, and 
the zephyr's balmy breeze ; 

Of the dainty flowers, and waving elms, 
and the yellow humming bees ; 

Of the rustling poplar and the oak, the tam 
arisk and the beech, 

The dog-rose and anemone, thou hadst 
a dream of each ! 

Of the galingale and hyacinth, and the lily s 
snowy hue, 

The couch-grass, and green maiden-hair, 
and celandine pale blue, 

The gold-bedropt cassidony, the fern, and 
sweet woodbine 



5 



THE ROISTERERS 



Theocritus ! Theocritus ! what pleasant 
dreams were thine ! 

Of the merry harvest-home, all beneath the 

good green tree, 
The poppies and the spikes of corn, the 

shouting and the glee 
Of the lads so blithe and healthy, and the 

girls so gay and neat, 
And the dance they lead around the tree 

with ever twinkling feet ; 
And the bushy piles of lentisk to rest the 

aching brow, 
And reach and pluck the damson down from 

the overladen bough, 
And munch the roasted bean at ease, and 

quaff the Ptelean wine 
Theocritus ! Theocritus ! what pleasant 

dreams were thine ! 

And higher dreams were thine to dream 

of Heracles the brave, 
And Polydeukes good at need, and Castor 

strong to save ; 
Of Dionysius and the woe he wrought the 

Theban king ; 



And of Zeus the mighty centre of Olympus* 

glittering ring ; 
Of Tiresias, the blind old man, the fam'd 

Aonian seer ; 
Of Hecate, and Cthonian Dis, whom all 

mankind revere ; 
And of Daphnis lying down to die beneath 

the leafy vine 
Theocritus ! Theocritus ! what pleasant 

dreams were thine ! 

But mostly sweet and soft thy dreams 

of Cypris' loving kiss, 
Of the dark-haired maids of Corinth, and 

the feasts of Sybaris ; 
Of alabaster vases of Assyrian perfume, 
Of ebony, and gold, and pomp, and softly- 

curtain'd room ; 
Of Faunus piping in the woods to the Sa 
tyrs' noisy rout, 
And the saucy Panisks mocking him with 

many a jeer and flout ; 
And of the tender-footed Hours, and 

Pieria's tuneful Nine 
Theocritus ! Theocritus ! what pleasant 

dreams were thine ! 



THE ROISTERERS 



fticljarfc 



25arljam 



("THOMAS INGOLDSBY") 



THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS 

THE Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair ! 
Bishop and abbot and prior were there ; 

Many a monk, and many a friar, 

Many a knight, and many a squire, 
With a great many more of lesser degree, 
In sooth, a goodly company ; 
And they serv'd the Lord Primate on 
bended knee. 

Never, I ween, 

Was a prouder seen, 

Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams, 
Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of 
Rheims ! 

In and out 

Through the motley rout, 
That little Jackdaw kept hopping about ; 



Here and there 

Like a dog in a fair, 

Over comfits and cates, 

And dishes and plates, 
Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall, 
Mitre and crosier ! he hopp'd upon all ! 

With a saucy air, 

He perch'd on the chair 
Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat, 
In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat ; 

And he peer'd in the face 

Of his Lordship's Grace, 
With a satisfied look, as if he would say, 
"We two are the greatest folks here to 
day ! " 

And the priests, with awe, 

As such freaks they saw, 
Said, " The Devil must be in that little 
Jackdaw!" 



RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM 



The feast was over, the board was clear'd, 
The ilawns and the custards had all disap- 

pear'd, 
And six little Singing-boys, dear little 

souls ! 

In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles, 
Came in order due, 
Two by two, 

Marching that grand refectory through. 
A nice little boy held a golden ewer, 
Einbuss'd and fill'd. with water, as pure 
As any that Hows between Rheims and 

Namur, 

Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch 
In a tine golden hand-basin made to match. 
Two nice little boys, rather more grown, 
Carried lavender-water and eau-de-Co 
logne ; 

And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap, 
Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope. 
One little boy more 
A napkin bore, 
Of the best white diaper, fringed with 

pink, 

And a Cardinal's hat mark'd in " permanent 
ink." 

The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight 
Of these nice little boys dress'd all in white : 
From his finger he draws 
His costly turquoise ; 

And, not thinking at all about little Jack 
daws, 

Deposits it straight 
By the side of his plate, 
While the nice little boys on his Eminence 

wait ; 
Till, when nobody 's dreaming of any such 

thing, 
That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring ! 

There 's a cry and a shout, 
And a deuce of a rout, 
And nobody seems to know what they 're 

about, 
But the monks have their pockets all turn'd 

inside out ; 

The friars are kneeling, 
And hunting, and feeling 
carpet, the floor, and tt*5 walls, and the 

ceiling. 

The Cardinal drew 
Off each plum-color'd shoe, 
Lnd left his red stockings expos'd to the 
view: 



He peeps, and he feels 
In tlie toes and the heels ; 
They turn up the dishes, they turn up 

the plates, 
They take up the poker and poke out the 

pates, 

They turn up the rugs, 
They examine the mu^s : 
But no ! no such thing ; 
They can't find THK RING ! 
And the Abbot declar'd that, " when no- 

body twigg'd it, 

Some rascal or other had popp'd in and 
prigg'd it 1 " 

The Cardinal rose with a dignified look, 
He call'd for his candle, his bell, and his 

book : 

In holy anger, and pious grief, 
He solemnly curs'd that rascally thief ! 
He curs'd him at board, he curs'd him 

in bed, 
From the sole of his foot to the crown of 

his head ! 
He curs'd him in sleeping, that every 

night 
He should dream of the devil, and wake 

in a fright ; 
He curs'd him in eating, he curs'd him 

in drinking, 
He curs'd him in coughing, in sneezing, 

in winking ; 
He curs'd him in sitting, in standing, in 

iy n g ; 

He curs'd him in walking, in riding, in 

flying ; 
He curs'd him in living, he curs'd him 

in dying ! 

Never was heard such a terrible curse ! 
But what gave rise 
To no little surprise, 
Nobody seeni'd one penny the worse I 

The day was gone, 
The night came on, 
The monks and the friars they search'd tfll 

dawn ; 

When the sacristan saw, 
On crumpled claw, 
Come limping a poor little lame Jack- 

daw. 

No longer gay, 
As on yesterday; 

His feathers all seem'd to be turn'd the 
wrong way; 



THE ROISTERERS 



His pinions droopM he could hardly 

stand, 
His head was as bald as the palm of your 

hand ; 

His eye so dim, 
So wasted each limb, 
That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, 

" THAT 's HIM ! 

That 's the scamp that has done this scanda 
lous thing ! 
That 's the thief that has got my Lord 

Cardinal's Ring ! " 
The poor little Jackdaw, 
When the monks he saw, 
Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw ; 
And turu'd his bald head, as much as to 

say, 

" Pray, be so good as to walk this way ! " 
Slower and slower 
He limp'd on before, 

Till they came to the back of the belfry- 
door, 

Where the first thing they saw, 
Midst the sticks and the straw, 
Was the RING, in the nest of that little 
Jackdaw. 

Then the great Lord Cardinal calPd for his 

book, 

And off that terrible curse he took ; 
The mute expression 
Serv'd in lieu of confession, 
And, being thus coupled with full resti 
tution, 
The Jackdaw got plenary absolution ! 

When those words were heard, 
That poor little bird 
Was so changed in a moment, 't was really 

absurd. 

He grew sleek and fat ; 
In addition to that, 
A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a 

mat. 

His tail waggled more 
Even than before ; 
But no longer it wagg'd with an impudent 

air, 
No longer he perch'd on the Cardinal's 

chair. 

He hopp'd now about 
With a gait devout ; 
At matins, at vespers, he never was out ; 
And, so far from any more pilfering deeds, 
He always seem'd telling the Confessor's 
beads. 



If any one lied, or if any one swore, 

Or slumber'd in pray'r-time and happen'd 

to snore, 

That good Jackdaw 

Would give a great " Caw ! " 

As much as to say, " Don't do so any more ! " 

While many remark'd, as his manners they 

saw, 
That they " never had known such a pious 

Jackdaw ! " 
He long liv'd the pride 
Of that country side, 
And at last in the odor of sanctity died ; 
When, as words were too faint 
His merits to paint, 
The Conclave determin'd to make him a 

Saint ; 
And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as 

you know, 
It's the custom, at Rome, new names to 

bestow, 

So they canoniz'd him by the name of Jen? 
Crow! 



MR. BARNEY MAGUIRE'S AC 
COUNT OF THE CORONATION 

OCH ! the Coronation ! what celebration 

For emulation can with it compare ? 
When to Westminster the Royal Spinster, 
And the Duke of Leiuster, all in order 

did repair ! 
'Twas there you'd see the New Polishe- 

men 

Make a scrimmage at half after four, 
And the Lords and Ladies, and the Miss 

O'Gradys, 

All standing round before the Abbey 
door. 

Their pillows scorning, that self-same morn 
ing 

Themselves adorning, all by the caudle- 
light, 
With roses and lilies, and daffy-down-dil- 

lies 
And gould and jewels, and rich di'monds 

bright. 

And then approaches five hundred coaches, 
With Gineral Dullbeak. Och ! 'twas 

mighty fine 

To see how asy bould Corporal Casey, 
With his sword drawn, prancing made 
them kape the line. 



RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM 



53 



Then the Guns' alarums, and the King of 

Arums, 

All in his Garters and his Clarence shoes, 
Opening the massy doors to the bould Am- 

bassydors, 

The Prince of Potboys, and great hay- 
then Jews : 

'T would have made you crazy to see Ester- 
hazy 
All jooPs from his jasey to his di'mond 

boots, 
With Alderman Harmer, and that swate 

charmer 
The famale heiress, Miss Anja-ly Coutts. 

And Wellington, walking with his swoord 

drawn, talking 
To Hill and Hardinge, haroes of great 

fame : 

And Sir De Lacy, and the Duke Dalmasey 
(They call'd him Sowlt afore he changed 

his name), 
Themselves presading Lord Melbourne, 

lading 

The Queen, the darling, to her royal chair, 
And that fine ould fellow, the Duke of Pell- 

Mello, 
The Queen of Portingal's Chargy-de-fair. 

Then the noble Prussians, likewise the 

Russians, 
In fine laced jackets with their goulden 

cuffs, 

And the Bavarians, and the proud Hunga 
rians, 
And Everythingarians all in furs and 

muffs. 
Then Misther Spaker, with Misther Pays 

the Quaker, 

All in the gallery you might persave ; 
But Lord Brougham was missing, and gone 

a-fishing, 

Ounly crass Lord Essex would not give 
him lave. 

There was Baron Alten himself exalting, 
And Prinee Von Schwartzenburg, and 

many more ; 
Och ! I 'd be bother'd and entirely smoth- 

er'd 

To tell the half of 'em was to the fore ; 
With the swate Peeresses, in their crowns 

and dresses, 

And Aklermanesses, and the Boord of 
Works; 



But Mehemet Ali said, quite giutaly 
" I 'd be proud to see the likes amr 
Turks ! " 



likes among the 



Then the Queen, Heaven bless her t och I 

they did dress her 
In her purple garaments and her goulden 

Crown ; 
Like Venus, or Hebe, or the Queen of 

Sheby, 
With eight young ladies houlding op her 

gown. 

Sure 't was grand to see her, also for to he-ar 
The big drums bating, and the trumpets 

blow, 
And Sir George Smart ! Oh ! he play'd a 

Consarto, 

With his four and twenty fiddlers all on 
a row. 

Then the Lord Archbishop held a goulden 

dish up, 
For to resave her bounty and great 

wealth, 
Saying, " Plase your glory, great Queen 

Vic-tory, 
Ye '11 give the Clargy lave to drink your 

health ! " 
Then his Riverence, retrating, discoors'd 

the mating : 
" Boys I Here 's your Queen ! deny it if 

you can ; 
And if any bould traitor, or infarior cray- 

thur 
Sneezes at that, I 'd like to see the man ! " 

Then the Nobles kneeling to the Pow'rt 

appealing, 
" Heaven send your Majesty a glorious 

reign ! " 
And Sir Claudius Hunter he did confront 

her, 
All in his scarlet gown and goulden 

chain. 
The great Lord May'r, too, sat in his chair 

too, 

But mighty sarious, looking fit to cry, 
For the Earl of Surrey, all in his hurry, 
Throwing the thirteens, hit him in his 
eye. 

Then there was preaching, and good store 

of speeching, 

With Dukes and Marquises on bended 
knee; 



THE ROISTERERS 



And they did splash her with real Macas- 

shur, 
And the Queen said, " Ah ! then thank ye 

all for me ! " 
Then the trumpets braying, and the organ 

playing, 

And the sweet trombones, with their sil 
ver tones ; 
But Lord Rolle was rolling ; 't was 

mighty consoling 

To think his Lordship did not break his 
bones ! 

Then the crames and custard, and the beef 

and mustard, 
All on the tombstones like a poultherer's 

shop ; 
With lobsters and white-bait, and other 

swate-meats, 
And wine and nagus, and Imparial Pop ! 



There was cakes and apples in all the 

Chapels, 
With fine polonies, and rich mellow 

pears, 
Och ! the Count Von Strogonoff, sure he 

got prog enough, 
The sly ould Divil, undernathe the stairs. 

Then the cannons thunder'd, and the people 

wonder 'd, 
Crying, "God save Victoria, our Royal 

" Queen!" 

Och ! if myself should live to be a hun 
dred, 
Sure it 's the proudest day that I '11 have 

seen ! 
And now, I 've ended, what I pretended, 

This narration splendid in swate poe-thry, 
Ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher, 
Faith, it 's myself that 's getting dhry. 



THE IRISHMAN AND THE LADY 

THERE was a lady liv'd at Leith, 

A lady very stylish, man ; 
And yet* in spite of all her teeth, 
She fell in love with an Irishman 
A nasty, ugly Irishman, 
A wild, tremendous Irishman, 
A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, 
ranting, roaring Irishman. 

His face was no ways beautiful, 

For with small-pox 't was scarr'd across; 
And the shoulders of the ugly dog 
Were almost double a yard across. 
Oh, the lump of an Irishman, 
The whiskey-devouring Irishman, 
The great he-rogue with his wonderful 
brogue the fighting, rioting Irish 
man. 

One of his eyes was bottle-green, 

And the other eye was out, my dear ; 
And the calves of his wicked-looking legs 
Were more than two feet about, my dear. 
Oh, the great big Irishman, 
The rattling, battling Irishman 
The stamping, ramping, swaggering, stag 
gering, leathering swash of an Irish 
man. 



He took so much of Lundy-foot 

That he used to snort and snuffle O I 
And in shape and size the fellow's neck 
Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo. 
Oh, the horrible Irishman, 
The thundering,blundering Irishman 
The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, 
thrashing, hashing Irishman. 

His name was a terrible name, indeed, 

Being Timothy Thady Mulligan ; 
And whenever he emptied his tumbler of 

punch 
He'd not rest till he fill'd it full 

again. 

The boozing, bruising Irishman, 
The 'toxicated Irishman 
The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, 
brandy, no dandy Irishman. 

This was the lad the lady lov'd, 
Like all the girls of quality ; 
And he broke the skulls of the men of 

Leith, 

Just by the way of jollity. 
Oh, the leathering Irishman, 
The barbarous, savage Irishman 
The hearts of the maids, and the gentle 
men's heads, were bother'd I 'm sure 
by this Irishman. 



MAGINN MAHONY 



55 



THE SOLDIER-BOY 

I GIVE my soldier-boy a blade, 

In fair Damascus fashion'd well ; 
Who first the glittering falchion sway'd, 

Who first beneath its fury fell, 
I know not ; but I hope to know 

That for no mean or hireling trade, 
To guard no feeling base or low, 

I give my soldier-boy a blade. 

Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood 
In which its tempering work was done 

As calm, as clear, as cool of mood, 
Be thou whene'er it sees the sun. 



For country's claim, at honor's call, 
For outraged friend, insulted maid, 

At mercy's voice to bid it fall, 
I give my soldier-boy a blade. 

The eye which mark'd its peerless edge, 

The hand that weigh'd its balanced 

poise. 
Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge, 

Are gone with all their flame and 

noise 
And still the gleaming sword remains ; 

So, when in dust I Tow am laid, 
Remember by these heart-felt strains, 

I gave my soldier-boy a blade. 



jprancig 

("FATHER PROUT") 






THE SHANDON BELLS 

Sabbata pango ; 
Fvnera plango ; 
Solemnia clango. 

INSCRIPTION ON AN OLD 

WITH deep affection 
And recollection 
I often think of 

Those Shandon bells, 
Whose sounds so wild would, 
In the days of childhood, 
Fling round my cradle 

Their magic spells. 
On this I ponder 
Where'er I wander, 
And thus grow fonder, 

Sweet Cork, of thee, 
With thy bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I Ve heard bells chiming 
Full many a clime in, 
Tolling sublime in 

Cathedral shrine, 
While at a glibe rate 
Brass tongues would vibrate 
But all their music 

Spoke naught like thine ; 
For memory, dwelling 
On each proud swelling 
Of the belfry, knelling 

Its bold notes free, 
Made the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 



The pleasant waters 
Of the river Lee. 

I Ve heard bells tolling 
Old Adrian's Mole in, 
Their thunder rolling 

From the Vatican, 
And cymbals glorious 
Swinging uproarious 
In the gorgeous turrets 

Of Notre Dame ; 
But thy sounds were sweeter 
Than the dome of Peter 
Flings o'er the Tiber, 

Pealing solemnly : 
Oh ! the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

There 's a bell in Moscow ; 
While on tower and kiosk oh ! 
In Saint Sophia 

The Turkman gets, 
And loud in air 
Calls men to prayer, 
From the tapering summit 

Of tall minarets. 
Such empty phantom 
I freely grant them ; 
But there 's an anthem 

More dear to me : 
'T is the bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 



WALKER COLERIDGE 



MEDITATIVE POETS 



n&flltom 

DEATH'S ALCHEMY 

THEY say that thou wert lovely on thy bier, 
More lovely than in life ; that when the 

thrall 
Of earth was loos'd, it seem'd as though a 

pall 

Of years were lifted, and thou didst appear 
Such as of old amidst thy home's calm 

sphere 
Thou sat'st, a kindly Presence felt by all 



W&lket 



TO THE NAUTILUS 

WHERE Ausonian summers glowing 
Warm the deep to life and joyance, 
And gentle zephyrs, nimbly blowing, 
Wanton with the waves that flowing 
By many a land of ancient glory, 
And many an isle renown'd in story, 
Leap along with gladsome buoyance, 

There, Marinere, 

Dost thou appear 
In faery pinnace gaily flashing, 
Through the white foam proudly dash 
ing* 

The joyous playmate of the buxom breeze, 
The fearless fondling of the mighty seas. 

Thou the light sail boldly spreadest, 
O'er the furrow'd waters gliding, 
Thou nor wreck nor foeman dreadest, 
Thou nor helm nor compass needest, 
While the sun is bright above thee, 
While the bounding surges love thee : 
In their deepening bosoms hiding 

Thou canst not fear, 

Small Marinere, 

For though the tides with restless motion' 
Bear thee to the desert ocean, 
Far as the ocean stretches to the sky, 
'T is all thine own, 't is all thy empery. 



In 



joy or grief, from morn to evening- 

fall, 

The peaceful Genius of that mansion dear. 
Was it the craft of all-persuading Love 
That wrought this marvel ? or is Death in- 



A mighty master, gifted from above 
With alchemy benign, to wounded hearts 
Minist'ring thus, by quaint and subtle arts, 
Strange comfort, whereon after-thought 
may feed ? 



Lame is art, and her endeavor 
Follows nature's course but slowly, 
Guessing, toiling, seeking ever, 
Still improving, perfect never ; 
Little Nautilus, thou showest 
Deeper wisdom than thou knowest, 
Lore, which man should study lowly : 

Bold faith and cheer, 

Small Marinere, 

Are thine within thy pearly dwelling : 
Thine, a law of life compelling, 
Obedience, perfect, simple, glad and free, 
To the great will that animates the sea. 

THE BIRTH OF SPEECH 

WHAT; was't awaken'd first the untried 

ear 

Of that sole man who was all human kind ? 
Was it the gladsome welcome of the wind, 
Stirring the leaves that never yet were sere ? 
The four mellifluous streams which flow'd so 

near, 

Their lulling murmurs all in one combin'd ? 
The note of bird unnam'd ? The startled 

hind 

Bursting the brake in wonder, not in fear, 
Of her new lord ? Or did the holy ground 
Send forth mysterious melody to greet 
The gracious pressure of immaculate feet ? 






HARTLEY COLERIDGE 



57 



Did viewless seraphs rustle all around, 
Making' sweet music out of air as sweet, 
Or his own voice awake him with its sound ? 



WHITHER? 

WHITHER is gone the wisdom and the power 
That ancient sages scatter'd with the notes 
Of thought-suggesting lyres ? The music 

floats 

In the void air ; e'en at this breathing hour, 
In every cell and every blooming bower 
The sweetness of old lays is hovering still : 
But the strong soul, the self-constraining 

will, 
The rugged root that bare the winsome 

Sower 
Is weak and wither'd. Were we like the 

Fays 

That sweetly nestle in the foxglove bells, 
Or lurk and murmur in the rose-lipp'd shells 
Which Neptune to the earth for quit-rent 

pays, 

Then might our pretty modern Philomels 
Sustain our spirits with their roundelays. 



TO SHAKESPEARE 

THE soul of man is larger than the sky, 
Deeper than ocean or the abysmal dark 
Of the unfathom'd centre. Like that Ark 
Which in its sacred hold uplifted high, 
O'er the drown'd hills, the human family, 
And stock reserv'd of every living kind, 
So, in the compass of the single mind, 
The seeds and pregnant forms in essence lie, 
That make all worlds. Great Poet, 't was 

thy art 

To know thyself, and in thyself to be 
Whate'er love, hate, ambition, destiny, 
Or the firm, fatal purpose of the heart, 
Can make of Man. let thou wert still the 

same, 
Serene of thought, unhurt by thy own flame. 



IDEALITY 

THE vale of Tempe had in vain been fair, 
Green Ida never deem'd the nurse of Jove ; 
Each fabled stream, beneath its covert 

grove, 
Had idly murmur'd to the idle air ; 



The shaggy wolf had kept his horrid lair 
In Delphi's cell, and old Trophonitts* 

cave, 

And the wild wailing of the Ionian wave 
Had never blended with the sweet de 
spair 
Of Sappho's death-song : if the tight in- 

spir'd 

Saw only what the visual organs show, 
If heaven-born phantasy no more requir'd 
Thau what within the sphere of sense may 

grow. 

The beauty to perceive of earthly things, 
The mounting soul must heavenward prune 
her wings. 



SONG 

SHE is not fair to outward view 

As many maidens be, 
Her loveliness I never knew 

Until she smil'd on me ; 
Oh! then I saw her eye was bright, 
A well of love, a spring of light. 

But now her looks are coy and cold, 
To mine they ne'er reply, 

And yet I cease not to behold 
The love-light in her eye : 

Her very frowns are fairer far 

Than smiles of other maidens are. 



PRAYER 

BE not afraid to pray to pray is right 
Pray, if thou canst, with hope; but ever 

pray, 
Though hope be weak, or sick with long 

delay ; 

Pray in the darkness, if there be no light. 
Far is the time, remote from human sight, 
When war and discord on the earth shall 

cease ; 

Yet every prayer for universal peace 
Avails the blessed time to expedite. 
Whate'er is good to wish, ask that of 

Heaven, 
Though it be what thou canst not hope to 

see : 

Pray to be perfect, though material leaven 
ForbicFthe spirit so on earth to be; 
But if for any wish thou darest not pray, 
Then pray to God to cast that wish awmj. 



MEDITATIVE POETS 



"MULTUM DILEXIT" 

SHE sat and wept beside His feet; the weight 
Of siuoppress'd her heart; for all the blame, 
And the poor malice of the worldly shame, 
To her was past, extinct, and out of date : 
Only the sin remain 'd, the leprous state ; 
She would be melted by the heat of love, 
By fires far fiercer than are blown to prove 
And purge the silver ore adulterate. 



She sat and wept, and with her untress'd 

hair 
Still wip'd the feet she was so bless'd to 

touch ; 

And He wip'd off the soiling of despair 
From her sweet soul, because she lov'd so 

much. 

I am a sinner, full of doubts and fears : 
Make me a humble thing of love and 

tears. 



Stnna 



TAKE ME, MOTHER EARTH 

TAKE me, Mother Earth, to thy cold breast, 
And fold me there in everlasting rest ! 

The long day is o'er, 

I 'm weary, I would sleep ; 

But deep, deep, 

Never to waken more. 

I have had joy and sorrow, I have prov'd 
What life could give, have lov'd, and been 
belov'd ; 



THY JOY IN SORROW 

GIVE me thy joy in sorrow, gracious Lord, 
And sorrow's self shall like to joy appear ! 
Although the world should waver in its 

sphere 

I tremble not if Thou thy peace afford ; 
But, Thou withdrawn, I am but as a chord 
That vibrates to the pulse of hope and fear : 
Nor rest I more than harps which to the 



air 



THE SIGN OF THE CROSS 

WHENE'ER across this sinful flesh of 

mine 
I draw the Holy Sign, 



I am sick, and heart-sore, 
And weary; let me sleep ; 
But deep, deep, 
Never to waken more. 

To thy dark chamber, Mother Earth, I 

come, 
Prepare thy dreamless bed in my last home; 

Shut down the marble door, 

And leave me ! Let me sleep ; 

But deep, deep, 

Never to waken more ! 



Must answer when we place their tuneful 
board 

Against the blast, which thrill unmeaning 
woe 

Even in their sweetness. So no earthly wing 

E'er sweeps me but to sadden. Oh, place 
Thou 

My heart beyond the world's sad vibrat 
ing 

And where but in Thyself ? Oh, circle me, 

That I may feel no touches save of Thee. 



jftetmim 

All good thoughts stir within me, and re 
new 

Their slumbering strength divine ; 
Till there springs up a courage high and true 

To suffer and to do. 



JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 



59 



And who shall say, but hateful spirits 

around, 

For their brief hour unbound, 
Shudder to see, and wail their overthrow ? 

While on far heathen ground 
Sonic lonely Saint hails the fresh odor, 

though 
Its source he cannot know. 

ENGLAND 

TYRE of the West, and glorying in the name 

More than in Faith's pure fame 1 
trust not crafty fort nor rock renown'd 
Earn'd upon hostile ground ; 
Yielding Trade's master-keys, at thy proud 

will 

lock or loose its waters, England ! trust 
not still. 

thine own power ! Since haughty 
Babel's prime, 

[igh towers have been man's crime, 
iince her hoar age, when the huge moat 
^^ lay bare, 

Strongholds have been man's snare. 
Thy nest is in the crags; ah, refuge frail ! 
Mad counsel in its hour, or traitors, will 
prevail. 

He who scann'd Sodom for His righteous 

men 

Still spares thee for thy ten ; 
But, should vain tongues the Bride of 

Heaven defy, 
He will not pass thee by ; 
For, as earth's kings welcome their spotless 

guest, 
So gives He them by turn, to suffer or be 

blest. 

REVERSES 

WHEN mirth is full and free, 
Some sudden gloom shall be ; 
When haughty power mounts high, 
The Watcher's axe is nigh. 
All growth has bound ; when greatest found, 
It hastes to die. 

When the rich town, that long 
Has lain its huts among, 
Uprears its pageants vast, 
And vaunts it shall not last I 
1 Bright tints that shine are but a sign 
Of summer past. 



And when thine eye surveys, 
With fond adoring gaze, 
And yearning heart, thy friend, 
Love to its grave doth tend. 
All gifts below, save Truth, but grow 
Towards an end. 

THE PILLAR OF THE CLOUD 

LEAD, Kindly Light, amid the encircling 

gloom, 

Lead Thou me on ! 
The night is dark, and I am far from 

home 

Lead Thou me on ! 

Keep Thou my feet ; I do not ask to see 
The distant scene, one step enough for 
me. 

I was not ever thus, nor pray'd that Thou 

Shouldst lead me on. 
I lov'd to choose and see my path ; but 

now 

Lead Thou me on ! 
I lov'd the garish day, and, spite of 

fears, 

Pride rul'd my will : remember not past 
years. 

So long Thy power hath bless'd me, sure it 

still 

Will lead me on, 
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, 

till 

The night is gone ; 
And with the morn those angel faces 

smile 
Which I have lov'd long since, and lost 

awhile. 

THE ELEMENTS 

(A TRAGIC CHORUS) 

MAN is permitted much 

To scan and learn 

In Nature's frame ; 
Till he well-nieh can tame 
Brute mischiefs, and can touch 
Invisible things, and turn 
All warring ills to purposes of good. 
Thus, as a god below, 

He can control, 

And harmonize, what seems amiss to flow 
As sever'd from the whole 
And dimly understood. 



MEDITATIVE POETS 



But o'er the elements 
One Hand alone, 
One Hand has sway. 
What influence day by day 
In straiter belt prevents 
The impious Ocean, thrown 
Alternate o'er the ever-sounding shore ? 
Or who has eye to trace 

How the Plague came ? 
Forerun the doublings of the Tempest's 

race? 

Or the Air's weight and flame 
On a set scale explore ? 



Thus God has will'd 
That man, when fully skill'd, 
Still gropes in twilight dim; 
Encompass'd all his hours 

By fearf ullest powers 
Inflexible to him. 
That so he may discern 

His feebleness, 
And e'en for earth's success 
To Him in wisdom turn, 
Who holds for us the keys of either 

home, 
Earth and the world to come. 



Cofoifcgc 



FROM "PHANTASMION" 

ONE FACE ALONE 

ONE face alone, one face alone, 

These eyes require ; 
But, when that long'd-for sight is shown, 

What fatal fire 
Shoots through my veins a keen and liquid 

flame, 
That melts each fibre of my wasting frame! 

One voice alone, one voice alone, 

I pine to hear ; 
But, when its meek mellifluous tone 

Usurps mine ear, 
Those slavish chains about my soul are 

wound, 

Which ne'er, till death itself, can be un 
bound. 

One gentle hand, one gentle hand, 

I fain would hold ; 
But, when it seems at my command, 

My own grows cold ; 



Then low to earth I bend in sickly swoon, 
Like lilies drooping 'mid the blaze of 
noon. 

HE CAME UNLOOK'D FOR 

HE came unlook'd for, undesir'd, 
A sunrise in the northern sky, 
More than the brightest dawn admir'd, 
To shine and then forever fly. 

His love, conferr'd without a claim, 
Perchance was like the fitful blaze, 
Which lives to light a steadier flame, 
And, while that strengthens, fast decays. 

Glad fawn along the forest springing, 
Gay birds that breeze-like stir the leaves, 
Why hither haste, no message bringing, 
To solace one that deeply grieves ? 

Thou star that dost the skies adorn, 
So brightly heralding the day, 
Bring one more welcome than the morn, 
Or still in night's dark prison stay. 



AS YONDER LAMP 

As yonder lamp in my vacated room 
With arduous flame disputes the darksome 

night, 
And can, with its involuntary light, 



But lifeless things that near it stand, illume; j 
Yet all the while it doth itself consume 
And, ere the sun begin its heavenly height 
With courier beams that meet the shep-j 

herd's sight, 
There, whence its life arose, shall be its) 

tomb : 



WHITEHEAD STERLING 



61 



So wastes my life away. Perforce conftn'd 
To common things, a limit to its sphere, 
It shines on worthless trifles undesign'd, 



SHAKESPEARE 

How little fades from earth when sink to 

rest 
The hours and cares that mov'd a great 

man's breast ! 
Though naught of all we saw the grave may 

spare, 

His life pervades the world's impregnate air; 
Though Shakespeare's dust beneath our 

footsteps lies, 

His spirit breathes amid his native skies ; 
With meaning won from him forever glows 
Each air that England feels, and star it 

knows ; 
His whisper'd words from many a mother's 

voice 

Can make her sleeping child in dreams re 
joice, 
And gleams from spheres he first conjoin'd 

to earth 
Are blent with rays of each new morning's 

birth. 

Amid the sights and tales of common things, 
Leaf, flower, and bird, and wars, and deaths 

of kings, 

Of shore, and sea, and nature's daily round, 
Of life that tills, and tombs that load the 

ground, 
His visions mingle, swell, command, pace 

And haunt with living presence heart and 

eye; 

And tones from him by other bosoms caught 
Awaken flush and stir of mounting thought, 
And the long sigh, and deep impassion'd 

thrill, 

Rouse custom's trance, and spur the falter 
ing will. 

Above the goodly land more his than ours 
He sits supreme enthron'd in skyey towers, 
And sees the heroic brood of his creation 
Teach larger life to his ennobled nation. 
shaping brain ! O flashing fancy's hues ! 
boundless heart kept fresh by pity's 
dews ! 



With fainter ray each hour impriaon'd here. 
Alas ! to know that the consuming miiul 
Shall leave its lamp cold, ere the sun appear! 



O wit humane and blithe 1 O sense sublime 
For each dim oracle of mantled Time I 
Transcendent Form of Man 1 in whom we 

read 
Mankind's whole tale of Impulse, Thought, 

and Deed ; 

Amid the expanse of years beholding thee t 
We know how vast our world of life may be ; 
Wherein, perchance, with aims as pure as 

thine, 
Small tasks and strengths may be no let! 

divine. 

LOUIS XV 

THE King with all his kingly train 

Had left his Pompadour behind, 

And forth he rode in Senart's wood 

The royal beasts of chase to find. 

That day by chance the Monarch mused, 

And turning suddenly away, 

He struck alone into a path 

That far from crowds and courtiers lay. 

He saw the pale green shadows play 
Upon the brown untrodden earth ; 
He saw the birds around him flit 
As if he were of peasant birth ; 
He saw the trees that know no king 
But him who bears a woodland axe ; 
He thought not, but he look'd about 
Like one who skill in thinking lacks. 

Then close to him a footstep fell, 

And glad of human sound was he, 

For truth to say he found himself 

A weight from which he fain would flee. 

But that which he would ne'er have guese'd 

Before him now most plainly came ; 

The man upon his weary back 

A coffin bore of rudest frame. 

"Why, who art thou?" exclaim'd the 

King, 

" And what is that I see thee bear ? 
" I am a laborer in the wood, 
And 't is a coffin for Pierre. 



62 



MEDITATIVE POETS 



Close by the royal hunting-lodge 
You may have often seen him toil ; 
But he will never work again, 
And I for him must dig the soil." 

The laborer ne'er had seen the King, 
And this he thought was but a man, 
Who made at first a moment's pause, 
And then anew his talk began : 
" I think I do remember now, 
He had a dark and glancing eye, 
And I have seen his slender arm 
With wondrous blows the pick-axe ply. 

" Pray tell me, friend, what accident 
Can thus have kill'd our good Pierre ? " 
"Oh! nothing more than usual, Sir, 
He died of living upon air. 
'T was hunger kill'd the poor good man, 
Who long on empty hopes relied ; 
He could not pay gabell and tax, 
And feed his children, so he died." 

The man stopp'd short, and then went 

on, 

" It is, you know, a common thing ; 
Our children's bread is eaten up 
By Courtiers, Mistresses, and King." 
The King look'd hard upon the man, 
And afterwards the coffin eyed, 
Then spurr'd to ask of Pompadour, 
How came it that the peasants died. 



TO A CHILD 

DEAR child ! whom sleep can hardly tame, 
As live and beautiful as flame, 
Thou glancest round my graver hours 
As if thy crown of wild-wood flowers 
Were not by mortal forehead worn, 
But on the summer breeze were borne, 
Or on a mountain streamlet's waves 
Caine glistening down from dreamy caves. 



With bright round cheek, amid whose glow 
Delight and wonder come and go, 
And eyes whose inward meanings play, 
Congenial with the light of day, 
And brow so calm, a home for Thought 
Before he knows his dwelling wrought ; 
Though wise indeed thou seemest not, 
Thou brightenest well the wise man's loto 

That shout proclaims the undoubting mind, 
That laughter leaves no ache behind ; 
And in thy look and dance of glee, 
Unforced, unthought of, simply free, 
How weak the schoolman's formal art 
Thy soul and body's bliss to part ! 
I hail thee Childhood's very Lord, 
In gaze and glance, in voice and word. 

In spite of all foreboding fear, 
A thing thou art of present cheer ; 
And thus to be belov'd and known 
As is a rushy fountain's tone, 
As is the forest's leafy shade, 
Or blackbird's hidden serenade : 
Thou art a flash that lights the whole ; 
A gush from Nature's vernal soul. 

And yet, dear Child ! within thee lives 
A power that deeper feeling gives, 
That makes thee more than light or air, 
Than ail things sweet and all things fair ; 
And sweet and fair as aught may be, 
Diviner life belongs to thee, 
For 'mid thine aimless joys began 
The perfect Heart and Will of Man. 

Thus what thou art foreshows to me 
How greater far thou soon shalt be ; 
And while amid thy garlands blow 
The winds that warbling come and go s 
Ever within not loud but clear 
Prophetic murmur fills the ear, 
And says that every human birth 
Anew discloses God to earth. 



3[ane 



TO A SWALLOW BUILDING 
UNDER OUR EAVES 

THOU too hast traveled, little fluttering 
thing 



Hast seen the world, and now thy weary wing 

Thou too must rest. 
But much, my little bird, couldst thou but 

tell, 
I'd give to know why here thou lik'st so well 

To build thy" nest. 



JANE CARLYLE TRENCH 



For thou hast pass'd fair places in thy flight; 
A world lay all beneath thee where to light; 

And, strange thy taste, 
Of all the varied scenes that met thine eye, 
Of all the spots for building 'neath the sky, 

To choose this waste. 

)id fortune try thee ? was thy little purse 
jrchance run low, and thou, afraid of 

worse, 

Felt here secure ? 
no ! thou need'st not gold, thou happy 

one ! 

know'st it not. Of all God's crea 
tures, man 
Alone is poor. 

was it, then ? some mystic turn of 

thought 
Jaught under German eaves, and hither 

brought, 

Marring thine eye 
Tor the world's loveliness, till thou art 

grown 

sober thing that dost but mope and moan, 
Not knowing why ? 



Nay, if thy mind be sound, 1 need not 

ask, 
Since here I see thee working at thy Uk 

With wing and beak. 
A well-laid scheme doth that small head 

contain, 
At which thou work'st, brave bird, with 

might and main, 
Nor more need'st seek. 

In truth, I rather take it thou hast got 
By instinct wise much sense about thy lot, 

And hast small care 
Whether an Eden or a desert be 
Thy home, so thou remainst alive, and 
free 

To skim the air. 

God speed thee, pretty bird ; may thy small 

nest 
With little ones all in good time be blest. 

I love thee much ; 

For well thou managest that life of thine, 
While I ! Oh, ask not what I do with 

mine 1 
Would I were such 1 



AFTER THE BATTLE 

WE crown'd the hard-won heights at 
length, 

Baptiz'd in flame and fire ; 
We saw the foeman's sullen strength, 

That grimly made retire 

Saw close at hand, then saw more far 

Beneath the battle-smoke 
The ridges of his shatter'd war, 

That broke and ever broke. 

But one, an English household's pride, 

Dear many ways to me, 
Who climb'd that death-path by my side, 

I sought, but could not see. 

Last seen, what time our foremost rank 

That iron tempest tore ; 
He touch'd, he scal'd the rampart bank 

Seen then, and seen no more. 



to Crenel) 

One friend to aid, I measur'd back 
With him that pathway dread ; 

No fear to wander from our track 
Its waymarks English dead. 

Light thicken'd : but our search wti 
crown'd, 

As we too well divin'd ; 
And after briefest quest we found 

What we most fear'd to find. 

His bosom with one death-shot riven, 

The warrior-boy lay low ; 
His face was turn'd unto the heaven, 

His feet unto the foe. 

As he had fallen upon the plain, 

Inviolate he lay ; 
No ruffian spoiler's hand profane 

Had touch'd that noble clay. 

And precious things he still retain'd, 
Which, by one distant hearth, 



MEDITATIVE POETS 



Lov'd tokens of the lov'd, had gain'd 
A worth beyond all worth. 

I treasur'd these for them who yet 

Knew not their mighty wo ; 
I softly seal'd his eyes, and set 

One kiss upon his brow. 

A decent grave we scoop'd him, where 

Less thickly lay the dead, 
And decently compos'd him there 

Within that narrow bed. 

O theme for manhood's bitter tears : 

The beauty and the bloom 
Of less than twenty summer years 

Shut in that darksome tomb ! 

Of soldier-sire the soldier-son ; 

Life's honor'd eventide 
One lives to close in England, one 

In maiden battle died : 

And they, that should have been the 
mourn'd, 

The mourners' parts obtain : 
Such thoughts were ours, as we return'd 

To earth its earth again. 

Brief words we read of faith and prayer 

Beside that hasty grave ; 
Then turn'd away, and left him there, 

The gentle and the brave : 



I calling back with thankful heart, 
With thoughts to peace allied, 

Hours when we two had knelt apart 
Upon the lone hillside ; 

And, comforted, I prais'd the grace 
Which him had led to be 

An early seeker of that Face 
Which he should early see. 



SONNET 

ALL beautiful things bring sadness, nor 

alone 

Music, whereof that wisest poet spake ; 
Because in us keen longings they awake 
After the good for which we pine and groan, 
From which exil'd we make continual 

moan, 

Till once again we may our spirits slake 
At those clear streams, which man did first 

forsake, 
When he would dig for fountains of his 

own. 

All beauty makes us sad, yet not in vain : 
For who would be ungracious to refuse, 
Or not to use, this sadness without pain, 
Whether it flows upon us from the hues 
Of sunset, from the time of stars and 

dews, 
From the clear sky, or waters pure of 

stain ? 



THE OLD BARON 

HIGH on a leaf-carv'd ancient oaken chair 
The Norman Baron sat within his hall, 
Wearied with a long chase by wold and 

mere ; 
His hunting spear was rear'd against the 

wall ; 
Upon the hearth-stone a large wood-fire 

blaz'd, 
Crackled, or smok'd, or hiss'd, as the green 

boughs were rais'd. 

Above an arch'd and iron-studded door, 
The grim escutcheon's rude devices stood ; 



On each side rear'd a black and gristly 
boar, 

With hearts and daggers grav'd on grounds 
of blood, 

And deep-dyed gules o'er which plum'd hel 
mets frown ; 

Beneath this motto ran, " Beware ! I 
trample down." 

And high around were suits of armor placed, 
And shields triangular, with the wild-boar's 

head ; 
Arrows, and bows, and swords the rafters 

graced, 
And red-deer's antlers their wide branches 



MILLER HANMER HOUGHTON 



A rough wolf's hide was nail'd upon the wall, 
Its white teeth clench'd as when it in the 
dell did fall. 

An angel-lamp from the carv'd ceiling 
hung ; 

Its outstretch'd wings the blazing oil con 
tain 'd, 

While its long figure in the wide hall 
swung, 

Blackening the roof to which its arms were 
chain'd ; 

The iron hair fell backward like a veil, 

And through the gusty door it sent a weary 

The heavy arras flutter'd in the wind 
That through the grated windows sweeping 

came, 

And in its foldings glitter'd hart and hind, 
While hawk, and horse, and hound, and kir- 

tled dame, 






3Nm, 

THE PINE WOODS 



WE stand upon the moorish mountain side, 
From age to age, a solemn company ; 
There are no voices in our paths, but we 
Hear the great whirlwinds roaring loud and 

wide ; 
And like the sea-waves have our boughs 

replied, 

From the beginning, to their stormy glee ; 
The thunder rolls above us, and some tree 



Moved on the curtaiu'd waves, then 

shade, 
Just as the fitful wind along the arraa 

played. 

On the oak table, filled with blood-red wine, 
A silver cup of quaint engraving stood, 
On which a thin-liinb'd stag of old design, 
Chas'd by six long-ear'd dogs, made for a 

wood ; 

Sounding a horn a huntsman stood in view, 
Whose swollen cheeks uprais'd the silver aa 

he blew. 

At the old Baron's feet a wolf-dog lay, 
Watching his features with unflinching eye; 
An aged minstrel, whose long locks were 

gray, 

On an old harp his wither'd hands did try ; 
A crimson banner's rustling folds hung low, 
And threw a rosy light upon his wrinkled 

brow. 



Smites with his bolt, yet doth the race 
abide, 

Answering all times ; but joyous, when the 
sun 

Glints on the peaks that clouds no longer 
bear, 

And the young shoots to flourish have be 
gun, 

And the quick seeds through the blue 
odorous air 

From the expanding cones fall one by one ; 

And silence as in temples dwelleth there. 



lorfc Dougluon 

(RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES) 



AN ENVOY TO AN AMERICAN 
LADY 

BEYOND the vague Atlantic deep, 
Far as the farthest prairies sweep, 
Where forest-glooms the nerve appal, 
Where burns the radiant Western fall, 



One duty lies on old and young, 

With filial piety to guard, 

As on its greenest native sward, 

The glory of the English tongue. 

That ample speech 1 That subtle speech I 

Apt for the need of all and each : 

Strong to endure, yet prompt to bend 

Wherever human feelings tend. 



66 



MEDITATIVE POETS 



Preserve its force expand its powers ; 
And through the maze of civic life, 
In Letters, Commerce, even in Strife, 
Forget not it is yours and ours. 

THE BROOK-SIDE 

I WANDER'D by the brook-side, 

I wander'd by the mill ; 

I could not hear the brook flow, 

The noisy wheel was still ; 

There was no burr of grasshopper, 

No chirp of any bird, 

But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 

I sat beneath the elm-tree ; 
J watch'd the long, long shade, 
And, as it grew still longer, 
I did not feel afraid ; 
For I listen'd for a footfall, 



I listen'd for a word, 

But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 

He came not, no, he came not 

The night came on alone, 

The little stars sat, one by one, 

Each on his golden throne ; 

The evening wind pass'd by my cheek, 

The leaves above were stirr'd, 

But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 

Fast silent tears were flowing, 
When something stood behind ; 
A hand was on my shoulder, 
I knew its touch was kind : 
It drew me nearer nearer, 
We did not speak one word, 
For the beating of our own hearts 
Was all the sound we heard. 



jf ramcg 3Unne feem&fe 



THE BLACK WALL-FLOWER 

I FOUND a flower in a desolate plot, 
Where no man wrought, by a deserted 

cot, 
Where no man dwelt ; a strange, dark- 

color'd gem, 

Black heavy buds on a pale leafless stem. 
I pluck'd it, wondering, and with it hied 
To my brave May, and showing it I cried : 
" Look, what a dismal flower ! did ever 

bloom, 
Born of our earth and air, wear such a 

gloom ? 

It looks as it should grow out of a tomb : 
Is it not mournful ? " " No," replied the 

child ; 

And, gazing on it thoughtfully, she smil'd. 
She knows each word of that great book of 

God, 
Spread out between the blue sky and the 

sod : 
" There are no mournful flowers they are 

all glad ; 
This is a solemn one, but not a sad." 



Lo ! with the dawn the black buds open'd 

slowly. 

Within each cup a color deep and holy, 
As sacrificial blood, glow'd rich and red, 
And through the velvet tissue mantling 

spread ; 
While in the midst of this dark crimson 

heat 
A precious golden heart did throb and 

beat ; 
Through ruby leaves the morning light did 

shine, 

Each mournful bud had grown a flow'r di 
vine ; 

And bitter sweet to senses and to soul, 
A breathing came from them, that fill'd the 

whole 
Of the surrounding tranced and sunny 

air 
With its strange fragrance, lil^e a silent 

prayer. 
Then cried I, "From the earth's whole 

wreath I '11 borrow 
No flower but thee ! thou exquisite type of 

sorrow ! " 



KEMBLE ALFORD MITFORD 



FAITH 

BETTER trust all and be deceiv'd, 
And weep that trust, and that deceiv 
ing* 



LADY MARY 

THOU wert fair, Lady Mary, 

As the lily in the sun : 
And fairer yet thou mightest be, 

Thy youth was but begun : 
Thine eye was soft and glancing, 

Of the deep bright blue ; 
And on the heart thy gentle words 

Fell lighter than the dew. 

They found thee, Lady Mary, 

With thy palms upon thy breast, 
Even as thou hadst been praying, 

At thine hour of rest : 
The cold pale moon was shining 

On thy cold pale cheek ; 
And the morn of the Nativity 

Had just begun to break. 

They carv'd thee, Lady Mary, 

All of pure white stone, 
With thy palms upon thy breast, 

In the chancel all alone : 
And I saw thee when the winter moon 

Shone on thy marble cheek, 
When the morn of the Nativity 

Had just begun to break. 

But thou kneelest, Lady Mary, 
With thy palms upon thy breast, 

Among the perfect spirits, 
In the land of rest 



Than doubt one heart that, if belie vM, 
Had blessed one's life with true believing. 

Oh, in this mocking world, too fast 

The doubting fiend overtakes our youth I 

Better be cheated to the last 

Than lose the blessed hope of truth. 



Thou art even as they took thee 

At thine hour of prayer, 
Save the glory that is on thee 

From the sun that shineth there. 

We shall see thee, Lady Mary, 

On that shore unknown, 
A pure and happy angel 

In the presence of the throne ; 
We shall see thee when the light divine 

Plays freshly on thy cheek, 
And the resurrection morning 

Hath just begun to break. 

COLONOS 

COLONOS ! can it be that thou hast still 
Thy laurel and thine olives and thy vine ? 
Do thy close-feather'd nightingales yet trill 
Their warbles of thick-sobbing song divine ? 
Does the gold sheen of the crocus o'er thee 

shine 

And dew-fed clusters of the daffodil, 
And round thy flowery knots Cephisua 

twine, 

Aye oozing up with many a bubbling rill ? 
Oh, might I stand beside thy leafy knoll, 
In sight of the far-off city-towers, and see 
The faithful-hearted pure Antigone 
Toward the dread precinct, leading sad and 

slow 

That awful temple of a kingly soul, 
Lifted to heaven by unexampled woe I 



THE ROMAN LEGIONS 

OH, aged Time ! how far, and long, 
Travell'd have thy pinions strong, 
Since the masters of the world 



fl^itforti 



Here their eagle-wings unfurl'd. 
Onward as the legions pass'd, 
Was heard the Roman trumoet's blast, 
And see the mountain portals old 
Now their opening gates unfold. 



63 



MEDITATIVE POETS 



Slow moves the Consul's car between 
Bright glittering helms and axes keen ; 
O'er moonlit rocks, and ramparts bare, 
High the Pretorian banners glare. 
Afar is heard the torrent's moan, 
The winds through rifted caverns groan 
The vulture's huge primeval nest, 
Wild toss'd the pine its shatter'd crest ; 
Darker the blackening forest frown'd : 
Strange murmurs shook the trembling 

ground. 

In the old warrior's midnight dream 
Gigantic shadows seem'd to gleam, 
The Caudine forks, and Cannae's field 
Again their threatening cohorts yield. 
Seated on the Thunderer's throne, 
He saw the shapes of gods unknown, 
Saw in Olympus' golden hall 
The volleyed lightning harmless fall, 
The great and Capitolian lord 
Dim sink, 'mid nameless forms abhorr'd. 
Shook the Tarpeian cliff ; around 
The trembling Augur felt the sound ; 
Saw, God of Light ! in deathly shade, 
Thy rich, resplendent tresses fade, 



And from the empty car of day 
The ethereal coursers bound away. 

Then frequent rose the signal shrill, 

Oft heard on Alba's echoing hill, 

Or down the Apulian mountains borne, 

The mingled swell of trump and horn ; 

The stern centurion frown'd to hear 

Unearthly voices murmuring near ; 

Back to his still and Sabine home 

Fond thoughts and favorite visions roam. 

Sweet Vesta ! o'er the woods again 

He views thy small and silent fane ; 

He sees the whitening torrents leap 

And flash round Tibur's mountain-steep ; 

Sees Persian ensigns wide unroll'd, 

Barbaric kings in chains of gold ; 

O'er the long Appian's crowded street, 

Sees trophied arms and eagles meet, 

Through the tall arch their triumph pour, 

Till rose the trumpet's louder roar ; 

From a thousand voices nigh 

Burst on his ear the banner-cry, 

And o'er the concave rocks, the sound 

AVRELIVS," smote with stern rebound. 



WRITTEN IN EDINBURGH 

EVEN thus, methinks, a city rear'd should 

be, 

Yea, an imperial city, that might hold 
Five times an hundred noble towns in fee, 
And either with their might of Babel old, 
Or the rich Roman pomp of empery 
Might stand compare, highest in arts en- 

roll'd, 



Highest in arms ; brave tenement for the 

free, 

Who never crouch to thrones, or sin for gold. 
Thus should her towers be rais'd with 

vicinage 
Of clear bold hills, that curve her very 

streets, 

As if to vindicate, 'mid choicest seats 
Of art, abiding Nature's majesty ; 
And the broad sea beyond, in calm or rage 
Chainless alike, and teaching Liberty. 



Cljoniag SDc CJere 



AN EPICUREAN'S EPITAPH 

WHEN from my lips the last faint sigh is 

blown 

By Death, dark waver of Lethean plumes, 
1 press not then with monumental 
stone 



This forehead smooth, nor weigh me down 

with glooms 

From green bowers, gray with dew, 
Of Rosemary and Rue. 
Choose for my bed some bath of sculptur'd 

marble 

Wreath'd with gay nymphs ; and lay me 
not alone 



AUBREY THOMAS DE VERB 



69 



Where sunbeams fall, flowers wave, and 

li^lit birds warble, 
To those who lov'd me murmuring in soft 

tone, 
" Here lies our friend, from pain secure and 

cold ; 
And spreads his limbs in peace under the 

suii-warm'd mould 1 " 



FLOWERS I WOULD BRING 

FLOWERS I would bring if flowers could 

make thee fairer, 

And music, if the Muse were dear to thee ; 
(For loving these would make thee love the 

bearer) 

But sweetest songs forget their melody, 
And loveliest flowers would but conceal the 

wearer : 
A rose I mark'd, and might have pluck'd ; 

but she 
Blush'd as she bent, imploring me to spare 

her, 

Nor spoil her beauty by such rivalry. 
Alas ! and with what gifts shall I pursue 

thee, 
What offerings bring, what treasures lay 

before thee ; 
When earth with all her floral train doth 

woo thee, 

And all old poets and old songs adore thee ; 
And love to thee is naught ; from passionate 

mood 
Secur'd by joy's complacent plenitude ! 



HUMAN LIFE 

SAD is our youth, for it is ever going, 
Crumbling away beneath our very feet ; 
Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing, 
In current unperceiv'd because so fleet ; 
Sad are our hopes for they were sweet in 

sowing, 
But tares, self-sown, have overtopp'd the 

wheat ; 
Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in 

blowing ; 
And still, O still, their dying breath is 

sweet : 
And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft 

us 
Of that which made our childhood sweeter 

still; 



And sweet our life's decline, for it hath left 

us 

A nearer Good to cure an older 111 : 
And sweet are all things, when we learn to 

prize them 
Not for their sake, but Uia who granU them 

or denies them. 



SORROW 

COUNT each affliction, whether light 01 
grave, 

God's messenger sent down to thee ; do 
thou 

With courtesy receive him ; rise and bow ; 

And, ere his shadow pass thy threshold, 
crave 

Permission first his heavenly feet to lave ; 

Then lay before him all thou hast. Allow 

No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow, 

Or mar thy hospitality ; no wave 

Of mortal tumult to obliterate 

The soul's marmoreal calmness. Grief 
should be 

Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate, 

Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free ; 

Strong to consume small troubles ; to com 
mend 

Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts 
lasting to the end. 



LOVE'S SPITE 

You take a town you cannot keep ; 

And, forced in turn to fly, 
O'er ruins you have made shall leap 

Your deadliest enemy ! 
Her love is yours and be it so 
But can you keep it ? No, no, no I 

Upon her brow we gaz'd with awe, 
And lov'd, and wish'd to love, in vain \ 

But when the snow begins to thaw 
We shun with scorn the miry plain. 

Women with grace may yield : but sfc 

Appear'd some Virgin Deity. 

Bright was her soul as Dian's crest 
Whitening on Vesta's fane its sheen : 

Cold look'd she as the waveless breast 
Of some stone Dian at thirteen. 

Men lov'd : but hope they deein'd to be 

A sweet Impossibility ! 



MEDITATIVE POETS 



THE QUEEN'S VESPERS 

HALF kneeling yet, and half reclining, 
She held her harp against her knees : 
Aloft the ruddy roofs were shining, 

And sunset touch'd the trees. 
From the gold border gleam'd like snow 
Her foot : a crown enrich'd her brow : 
Dark gems confin'd that crimson vest 
Close-moulded on her neck and breast. 

In silence lay the cloistral court 

And shadows of the convent towers : 
Well order'd now in stately sort 
Those royal halls and bowers. 
The choral chaunt had just swept by ; 
Bright arms lay quivering yet on high I 
Thereon the warriors gaz'd, and then 
Glanced lightly at the Queen again. 

While from her lip the wild hymn floated, 

Such grace in those uplifted eyes 
And sweet, half absent looks, they noted 

That, surely, through the skies 
A Spirit, they deem'd, flew forward ever 
Above that song's perpetual river, 
And, smiling from its joyous track, 
Upon her heavenly face look'd back. 



CARDINAL MANNING 

I LEARN'D his greatness first at Lavington : 
The inoon had early sought her bed of 

brine, 

But we discours'd till now each starry sign 
Had sunk : our theme was one and one 

alone : 
* Two minds supreme," he said, " our earth 

has known ; 
One sang in science; one serv'd God in 

song; 



TO IMPERIA 

THOU art not, and thou never canst be mine ; 

The die of fate for me is thrown, 

And thou art made 

No more to me than some resplendent shade 



Aquinas Dante." Slowly. in me grew 

strong 
A thought, " These two great minde in him 

are one ; 
'Lord, what shall this man do ? ' ' Later 

at Rome 

Beside the dust of Peter and of Paul 
Eight hundred mitred sires of Christendom 
In Council sat. I mark'd him 'mid them 

all; 

I thought of that long night in years gone by 
And cried, " At last my question meets re- 



SONG 

SEEK not the tree of silkiest bark 

And balmiest bud, 
To carve her name while yet 't is dark 

Upon the wood ! 
The world is full of noble tasks 

And wreaths hard won : 
Each work demands strong hearts, strong 

hands, 
Till day is done. 

Sing not that violet-veined skin, 

That cheek's pale roses, 
The lily of that form wherein 

Her soul reposes 1 
Forth to the fight, true man ! true knight ! 

The clash of arms 

Shall more prevail than whisper'd tale, 
To win her charms. 

The warrior for the True, the Right, 

Fights in Love's name ; 
The love that lures thee from that fight 

Lures thee to shame : 
That love which lifts the heart, yet leaves 

The spirit free, 
That love, or none, is fit for one 

Man-shap'd like thee. 



Flung on the canvas by old art divine ; 

Or vision of shap'd stone ; 

Or the far glory of some starry sign 

Which hath a beauty unapproachable 

To aught but sight, a throne 

High in the heavens and out of reach , 

Therefore with this low speech 



THOMAS BURBIDGE 



_ jid thee now a long and last farewell 
Ere I depart, in busy crowds to dwell, 
Yet be alone. 

All pleasures of this pleasant Earth be 
thine ! 

Yea, let her servants fondly press 

Unto thy feet, 

Bearing all sights most fair, all scents most 
sweet : 

Spring, playing with her wreath of budded 
vine ; 

Summer, with stately tress 

Prink'd with green wheat-ears and the 
white corn-bine ; 

And Autumn, crown'd from the yellow 
forest-tree ; 

And Winter, in his dress 

Begemm'd with icicles, from snow dead- 
white 

Shooting their wondrous light ; 

These be thine ever. But I ask of thee 

One blessing only to beseech for me, 

Forgetfulness. 

IF I DESIRE 

IF I desire with pleasant songs 
To throw a merry hour away, 

Conies Love unto me, and my wrongs 
In careful tale he doth display, 

And asks me how I stand for singing 

While I my helpless hands am wringing. 

And then another time if I 

A noon in shady bower would pass, 
Comes he with stealthy gestures sly 

And flinging down upon the grass, 
Quoth he to me : My master dear, 
Think of this noontide such a year ! 

And if elsewhere I lay my head 
On pillow with intent to sleep, 

Lies Love beside me on the bed, 

And gives me ancient words to keep ; 

Says he : These looks, these tokens number, 

May be, they '11 help you to a slumber. 

every time when I would yield 
An hour to quiet, comes he still ; 
hunts up every sign conceal'd 
And every outward sign of ill ; 
And gives me his sad face's pleasures 
For merriment's or sleep's or leisure's. 



MOTHER'S LOVE 

HE sang so wildly, did the Boy, 

That you could never tell 

If 't was a madman's voice you heard. 

Or if the spirit of a bird 

Within his heart did dwell : 

A bird that dallies with his voice 

Among the matted branches ; 

Or on the free blue air his note 

To pierce, and fall, and rise, and float, 

With bolder utterance launches. 

None ever was so sweet as he, 

The boy that wildly sang to me ; 

Though toilsome was the way and long, 

He led me not to lose the song. 

But when again we stood below 

The unhidden sky, his feet 

Grew slacker, and his note more slow, 

But more than doubly sweet. 

He led me then a little way 

Athwart the barren moor, 

And then he stayed and bade me stay 

Beside a cottage door ; 

I could have stayed of mine own will, 

In truth, my eye and heart to fill 

With the sweet sight which I saw there 

At the dwelling of the cottager. 

A little in the doorway sitting. 

The mother plied her busy knitting, 

And her cheek so softly smil'd, 

You might be sure, although her gaze 

Was on the meshes of the lace, 

Yet her thoughts were with her child. 

But when the boy had heard her voice, 

As o'er her work she did rejoice, 

His became silent altogether, 

And slily creeping by the wall, 

He seiz'd a single plume, let fall 

By some wild bird of longest feather ; 

And all a-tremble with his freak, 

He touch'd her lightly on the cheek. 

Oh, what a loveliness her eyes 
Gather in that one moment's space, 
While peeping round the post she spiel 
Her darling's laughing face ! 
Oh, mother's love is glorifying, 
On the cheek like sunset lying ; 
In the eyes a moisten'd light, 
Softer than the moon at night I 



ENGLISH SONG WRITERS 



EVENTIDE 

COMES something down with eventide 
Beside the sunset's golden bars, 

Beside the floating scents, beside 
The twinkling shadows of the stars. 

Upon the river's rippling face, 

Flash after flash the white 
Broke up in many a shallow place ; 

The rest was soft and bright. 

By chance my eye fell on the stream ; 

How many a marvellous power, 
Sleeps in us, sleeps, and doth not 
dream ! 

This knew I in that hour. 



For then my heart, so full of strife, 
No more was in me stirr'd ; 

My life was in the river's life, 
And I nor saw nor heard. 

I and the river, we were one : 
The shade beneath the bank, 

I felt it cool ; the setting sun 
Into my spirit sank. 

A rushing thing in power serene 

I was ; the mystery 
I felt of having ever been 

And being still to be. 

Was it a moment or an hour ? 

I knew not ; but I mourn'd 
When from that realm of awful power 

I to these fields return'd. 



IMltam 



TIME AND DEATH 

I SAW old Time, destroyer of mankind ; 
Calm, stern, and cold he sate, and often 

shook 

And turn'd his glass, nor ever car'd to look 
How many of life's sands were still behind. 
And there was Death, his page, aghast to 

find 

How tremblingly, like aspens o'er a brook, 
His blunted dart fell harmless ; so he took 



IDflitltiorrti 

His master's scythe, and idly smote the 
wind. 

Smite on, thou gloomy one, with powerless 
aim ! 

For Sin, thy mother, at her dying breath 

Wither'd that arm, and left thee but a name. 

Hope clos'd the grave, when He of Naza 
reth, 

Who led captivity His captive, came 

And vanquish'd the great conquerors, Time 
and Death. 



ENGLISH SONG WRITERS 
(See also : B. W. PROCTER.) 



CHAMPAGNE ROSE 

LILY on liquid roses floating 
^ So floats yon foam o'er pink champagne : 
Fain would I join such pleasant boating, 
And prove that ruby main, 
And float away on wine ! 



Those seas are dangerous, graybeards 

swear, 

Whose sea-beach is the goblet's brim ; 
And true it is they drown old care 
But what care we for him, 
So we but float on wine ! 



KEN YON WILLIAM HOWITT BAYLY 



73 



And true it is they cross in pain, 

Who sober cross the Stygian ferry ; 

But only make our Styx champagne, 
And we shall cross right merry, 
Floating away in wine 1 



Old Charon's self shall make him mellow, 
_*" gaNy row Ms boat from shore ; 
U lulu we, and every jovial fellow, 
Hear, unconcern'd, the oar 
That dips itself in wine I 



THE DEPARTURE OF THE 
SWALLOW 

AND is the swallow gone ? 

Who beheld it? 

Which way sail'd it ? 
Farewell bade it none ? 

No mortal saw it go : 

But who doth hear 

Its summer cheer 
As it flitteth to and fro ? 



So the freed spirit flies ! 

From its surrounding clay 

It steals away 
Like the swallow from the skies. 

Whither ? wherefore doth it go ? 

'Tis all unknown : 

We feel alone 
That a void is left below. 



SHE WORE A WREATH OF 
ROSES 

SHE wore a wreath of roses 

The night that first we met ; 
Her lovely face was smiling 

Beneath her curls of jet. 
Her footstep had the lightness, 

Her voice the joyous tone, - 
The tokens of a youthful heart, 

Where sorrow is unknown. 
I saw her but a moment, 

Yet methinks I see her now, 
With the wreath of summer flowers 

Upon her snowy brow. 

A wreath of orange-blossoms, 

When next we met, she wore ; 
The expression of her features 

Was more thoughtful than before ; 
And standing by her side was one 

Who strove, and not in vain, 
To soothe her, leaving that dear home 

She ne'er might view again. 
I saw her but a moment, 

Yet methinks I see her now, 



With the wreath of orange-blossoms 
Upon her snowy brow. 

And once again I see that brow ; 

No bridal- wreath is there, 
The widow's sombre cap conceals 

Her once luxuriant hair. 
She weeps in silent solitude, 

And there is no one near 
To press her hand within his own, 

And wipe away the tear. 
I see her broken-hearted ; 

Yet methinks I see her now, 
In the pride of youth and beauty, 

With a garland on her brow. 

OH! WHERE DO FAIRIES HIDE 
THEIR HEADS? 

OH ! where do fairies hide their heads 

When snow lies on the hills. 
When frost has spoil'd their mossy bed% 

And crystalliz'd their rills ? 
Beneath the moon they cannot trip 

In circles o'er the plain ; 
And draughts of dew they cannot tip 

Till green leaves come again. 



74 



ENGLISH SONG WRITERS 



Perhaps, in small, blue diving-bells, 

They plunge beneath the waves, 
Inhabiting the wreathed shells 

That lie in coral caves ; 
Perhaps, in red Vesuvius, 

Carousals they maintain ; 
And cheer their little spirits thus, 

Till green leaves come again. 



When they return there will be mirth, 

And music in the air, 
And fairy wings upon the earth, 

And mischief everywhere. 
The maids, to keep the elves aloof, 

Will bar the doors in vain ; 
No key-hole will be fairy-proof, 

When green leaves come again. 



THE SEA FOWLER 

THE baron hath the landward park, the 
fisher hath the sea ; 

But the rocky haunts of the sea-fowl be 
long alone to me. 

The baron hunts the running deer, the 
fisher nets the brine ; 

But every bird that builds a nest on ocean- 
cliffs is mine. 

Come on then, Jock and Alick, let 's to the 

sea-rocks bold : 
I was train'd to take the sea-fowl ere I was 

five years old. 

The wild sea roars, and lashes the granite 

crags below, 
And round the misty islets the loud, strong 

tempests blow. 

And let them blow ! Roar wind and wave, 
they shall not me dismay ; 

I 've faced the eagle in her nest and snatch'd 
her young away. 

The eagle shall not build her nest, proud 
bird although she be, 

Nor yet the strong-wing'd cormorant, with 
out the leave of me. 

The eider-duck has laid her eggs, the tern 

doth hatch her young, 
And the merry gull screams o'er her brood ; 

but all to me belong. 

Away, then, in the daylight, and back again 

ere eve ; 
The eagle could not rear her young, unless 

I gave her leave. 



I^otoitt 

The baron hath the landward park, the 

fisher hath the sea ; 
But the rocky haunts of the sea-fowl be* 

long alone to me. 



CORNFIELDS 

WHEN on the breath of autumn breeze, 
From pastures dry and brown, 

Goes floating like an idle thought 
The fair white thistle-down, 

Oh then what joy to walk at will 

Upon the golden harvest hill ! 

What joy in dreamy ease to lie 

Amid a field new shorn, 
And see all round on sun-lit slopes 

The pil'd-up stacks of corn ; 
And send the fancy wandering o'er 
All pleasant harvest-fields of yore. 

I feel the day I see the field, 
The quivering of the leaves, 

And good old Jacob and his house 
Binding the yellow sheaves ; 

And at this very hour I seem 

To be with Joseph in his dream. 

I see the fields of Bethlehem 

And reapers many a one, 
Bending unto their sickles' stroke, 

And Boaz looking on ; 
And Ruth, the Moabite so fair, 
Among the gleaners stooping there. 

Again I see a little child, 

His mother's sole delight, 
God's living gift of love unto 

The kind good Shunammite ; 
To mortal pangs I see him yield, 
And the lad bear him from the field. 



MARY HOWITT HERVEY 



75 



The sun-bath'd quiet of the hills, 

The fields of Galilee, 
That eighteen hundred years ago 

Were full of corn, I see ; 
And the dear Saviour takes his way 
'Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath day. 



Oh, golden fields of bending corn, 
How beautiful they seem ! 

The reaper-folk, the pil'd-up sheaves, 
To me are like a dream. 

The sunshine and the very air 

Seem of old time, and take me there. 



fjoma0 Jtibble 



I THINK ON THEE 

THINK on thee in the night, 
When all beside is still, 

the moon comes out, with her pale, sad 

light, 
To sit on the lonely hill ; 

ii the stars are all like dreams, 
And the breezes all like sighs, 

there comes a voice from the far-off 

streams 
Like thy spirit's low replies. 

think on thee by day, 

'Mid the cold and busy crowd, 

m the laughter of the young and gay 
Is far too glad and loud. 

thy soft, sad tone, 
And thy young, sweet smile I see : 
heart my heart were all alone, 
Jut for its dreams of thee ! 

thee who wert so dear, 
And yet I do not weep, 

thine eyes were stain'd by many a tear 
Before they went to sleep ; 
nd, if I haunt the past, 
Yet may I not repine 

thou hast won thy rest, at last, 
And all the grief is mine. 

think upon thy gain, 

Whate er to me it cost, 
And fancy dwells with less of pain 

On all that I have lost, 
Hope, like the cuckoo's oft-told tale, 

Alas, it wears her wing ! 



And love that, like the nightingale, 
Sings only in the spring. 

Thou art my spirit's all, 

Just as thou wert in youth, 
Still from thy grave no shadows fall 

Upon my lonely truth ; 
A taper yet above thy tomb, 

Since lost its sweeter rays, 
And what is memory, through the gloom, 

Was hope, in brighter days. 

I am pining for the home 

Where sorrow sinks to sleep, 
Where the weary and the weepers come, 

And they cease to toil and weep. 
Why walk about with smiles 

That each should be a tear, 
Yain as the summer's glowing spoils 

Flung o'er an early bier ? 

Oh, like those fairy things, 

Those insects of the East, 
That have their beauty in their wings, 

And shroud it while at rest ; 
That fold their colors of the sky 

When earthward they alight, 
And flash their splendors on the eye, 

Only to take their flight ; 

I never knew how dear thou wert, 

Till thou wert borne away ! 
I have it yet about my heart, 

The beauty of that day ! 
As if the robe thou wert to wear, 

Beyond the stars, were given 
That I might learn to know it there, 

And seek thee out, in heaven 1 



7 6 



ENGLISH SONG WRITERS 



TRIPPING DOWN THE FIELD- 
PATH 

TRIPPING down the field-path, 

Early in the morn, 
There I met ray own love 

'Midst the golden corn ; 
Autumn winds were blowing, 

As in frolic chase, 
All her silken ringlets 

Backward from her face; 
Little time for speaking 

Had she, for the wind, 
Bonnet, scarf, or ribbon, 

Ever swept behind. 

Still some sweet improvement 

In her beauty shone ; 
Every graceful movement 

Won me, one by one ! 
As the breath of Venus 

Seemed the breeze of morn, 
Blowing thus between us, 

'Midst the golden corn. 
Little time for wooing 

Had we, for the wind 
Still kept on undoing 

What we sought to bind. 

Oh ! that autumn morning 

In my heart it beams, 
Love's last look adorning 

With its dream of dreams : 
Still, like waters flowing 

In the ocean shell, 
Sounds of breezes blowing 

In my spirit dwell ; 
Still I see the field-path ; 

Would that I could see 
Her whose graceful beauty 

Lost is now to me ! 

TAKE THE WORLD AS IT IS 

TAKE the world as it is ! there are good 

and bad in it, 
And good and bad will be from now to 

the end ; 
And they, who expect to make saints in a 

minute, 

Are in danger of marring more hearts 
than they '11 mend. 



If ye wish to be happy ne'er seek for the 

faults, 
Or you 're sure to find something or 

other amiss ; 
'Mid much that debases, and much that ' | 

exalts, 
The world 's not a bad one if left as it is. 

Take the world as it is ! if the surface be j | 

shining, 
Ne'er rake up the sediment hidden be- -I 

low! 
There 's wisdom in this, but there 's none i| 

in repining 
O'er things which can rarely be mended, 

we know. 
There 's beauty around us, which let us (I 

enjoy ; 
And chide not, unless it may be with a 

kiss ; 
Though Earth 's not the Heaven we thought 

when a boy, 
There 's something to live for, if ta'eu as 
it is. 

Take the world as it is ! with its smiles 

and its sorrow, 

Its love and its friendship, its false 
hood and truth, 
Its schemes that depend on the breath of 

to-morrow, 
Its hopes which pass by like the dreams 

of our youth : 
Yet, oh ! whilst the light of affection may 

shine, 
The heart in itself hath a fountain of 

bliss ; 
In the worst there 's some spark of a nature 

divine, 

And the wisest and best take the world 
as it is. 

LIFE 

LIFE 's not our own, 't is but a loan 

To be repaid ; 

Soon the dark Comer's at the door, 
The debt is due : the dream is o'er, 

Life 's but a shade. 

Thus all decline that bloom or shine, 
Both star and flower j 



SWAIN COOK 



77 



*T is but a little odor shed, 
A light gone out, a spirit lied, 
A funeral hour. 

Then let us show a tranquil brow 

Whate'er befalls ; 
That we upon life's latest brink 
May look on Death's dark face, and 
think 

An angel calls. 

THE ROSE THOU GAV'ST 

THE rose thou gav'st at parting 

Hast thou forgot the hour ? 
The moon was on the river, 

The dew upon the flower : 
Thy voice was full of tenderness, 

But, ah ! thy voice misleads ; 
The rose is like thy promises, 

Its thorn is like thy deeds. 

The winter cometh bleakly, 

And dark the time must be ; 
Bnt I can deem it summer 

To what thou 'st prov'd to me. 
The snow that meets the sunlight 

Soon hastens from the scene ; 
But melting snow is lasting, 

To what thy faith hath been. 



'TWAS JUST BEFORE THE HAY 
WAS MOWN 

'T WAS just before the hay was mown, 

The season had been wet and cold, 
When my good dame began to groan, 

And speak of days and years of old : 
Ye were a young man then, and gay, 

And raven black your handsome hair ; 
Ah ! Time steals many a grace away, 

And leaves us many a grief to bear. 

Tush ! tush ! said I, we 've had our time, 

And if 't were here again 't would go ; 
The youngest cannot keep their prime, 

The darkest head some gray must show. 
We 've been together forty years, 

And though it seem but like a day, 
We 've much less cause, dear dame, for 
tears, 

Than many who have trod life's way. 

Goodman, said she, ye 're always right, 

And 't is a pride to hear your tongue ; 
And though your fine old head be white, 

'T is dear to me as when 't were young. 
So give your hand, 't was never shown 

But in affection unto me ; 
And I shall be beneath the stone, 

Aiid lifeless, when I love not thee. 



<ii;a Cooft 



THE QUIET EYE 

THE orb I like is not the one 

That dazzles with its lightning gleam ; 
That dares to look upon the sun, 

As though it challenged brighter beam. 
That orb may sparkle, Hash, and roll ; 

Its fire may blaze, its shaft may fly ; 
But not for me : I prize the soul 

That slumbers in a quiet eye. 

There 's something in its placid shade 

That tells of calm, unworldly thought ; 
Hope may be crown'd, or joy delay'd 

No dimness steals, no ray is caught. 
Its pensive language seems to say, 

"I know that I must close and die ; " 
And death itself, come when it may, 

Can hardly change the quiet eye. 



There 's meaning in its steady glance. 

Of gentle blame or praising love, 
That makes me tremble to advance 

A word, that meaning might re 
prove. 
The haughty threat, the fiery look, 

My spirit proudly can defy, 
But never yet could meet and brook 

The upbraiding of a quiet eye. 

There 's firmness in its even light, 

That augurs of a breast sincere : 
And, oh ! take watch how ye excite 

That firmness till it yield a tear. 
Some bosoms give an easy sigh, 

Some drops of grief will freely 

start, 
But that which sears the o,uiet eye 

Hath its deep fountain in the heart 



78 



ENGLISH SONG WRITERS 



THE SEA-CHILD 

HE crawls to the cliff and plays on a brink 
Where every eye but his own would shrink ; 
No music he hears but the billow's noise, 
And shells and weeds are his only toys. 
No lullaby can the mother find 
To sing him to rest like the moaning wind ; 
And the louder it wails and the fiercer it 

sweeps, 
The deeper he breathes and the sounder he 

sleeps. 

And now his wandering feet can reach 
The rugged tracks of the desolate beach ; 
Creeping about like a Triton imp, 
To find the haunts of the crab and shrimp. 
He clings, with none to guide or help, 
To the furthest ridge of slippery kelp ; 
And his bold heart glows while he stands 

and mocks 
The seamew's cry on the jutting rocks. 



Few years have wan'd and now he stanc 
Bareheaded on the shelving sands. 
A boat is moor'd, but his young 

cope 

Right well with the twisted cable rope ; 
He frees the craft, she kisses the tide ; 
The boy has climb'd her beaten side : 
She drifts she floats he shouts with 

glee; 
His soul hath claim'd its right on the sea. 

'T is vain to tell him the howling breath 
Rides over the waters with wreck and 

death : 

He '11 say there 's more of fear and pain 
On the plague-ridden earth than the storm- 

lash'd main. 

'T would be as wise to spend thy power 
In trying to lure the bee from the flower, 
The lark from the sky, or the worm from 

the grave, 
As in weaning the Sea-Child from the wave. 



BABY MAY 

CHEEKS as soft as July peaches, 
Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches 
Poppies paleness round large eyes 
Ever great with new surprise, 
Minutes fill'd with shadeless gladness, 
Minutes just as brimm'd with sadness, 
Happy smiles and wailing cries, 
Crows and laughs and tearful eyes, 
Lights and shadows swifter born 
Than on wind-swept Autumn corn, 
Ever some new tiny notion 
Making every limb all motion 
Catching up of legs and arms, 
Throwings back and small alarms, 
Clutching fingers straightening jerks, 
Twining feet whose each toe works, 
Kickings up and straining risings, 
Mother's ever new surprisings, 
Hands all wants and looks all wonder 
At all things the heavens under, 
Tiny scorns of smil'd reprovings 
That have more of love than lovings, 



Mischiefs done with such a winning 
Archness, that we prize such sinning, 
Breakings dire of plates and glasses, 
Graspings small at all that passes, 
Pullings off of all that 's able 
To be caught from tray or table ; 
Silences small meditations, 
Deep as thoughts of cares for nations, 
Breaking into wisest speeches 
In a tongue that nothing teaches, 
All the thoughts of whose possessing 
Must be wooed to light by guessing ; 
Slumbers such sweet angel-seemings, 
That we 'd ever have such dreamings, 
Till from sleep we see thee breaking, 
And we 'd always have thee waking ; 
Wealth for which we know no measure, 
Pleasure high above all pleasure, 
Gladness brimming over gladness, 
Joy in care delight in sadness, 
Loveliness beyond completeness, 
Sweetness distancing all sweetness, 
Beauty all that beauty may be 
That 's May Bennett, that 's my baby. 



BENNETT LAING 



79 



BE MINE, AND I WILL GIVE 
THY NAME 

BE mine, and I will give thy name 

To Memory's care, 
So well, that it shall breathe, with fame, 

Immortal air, 
That time and change and death shall 

be 
Scorn'd by the life I give to thee. 

I will not, like the sculptor, trust 

Thy shape to stone ; 
That, years shall crumble into dust, 

Its form unknown ; 
No the white statue's life shall be 
Short, to the life I '11 give to thee. 

Not to the canvas worms may fret 

Thy charms I '11 give ; 
Soon shall the world those charms for 
get, 

If there they live ; 
The life that colors lend shall be 
Poor to the life I'll give to thee. 



For t IK in shalt live, defying time 

And mocking death, 
In music on O life sublime I 

A nation's breath ; 
Love, in a people's songs, shall be 
The eternal life I '11 give to thee. 

A CHRISTMAS SONG 

BLOW, wind, blow, 
Sing through yard and shroud ; 
Pipe it shrilly and loud, 

Aloft as well as below ; 
Sing in my sailor's ear 
The song I sing to you, 
" Come home, my sailor trne, 
For Christmas that corned so near. " 

Go, wind, go, 

Hurry his home-bound sail, 
Through gusts that are edged with hail, 

Through winter, and sleet, and snow ; 
Song, in my sailor's ear, 
Your shrilling and moans shall be, 
For he knows they sing him to me 
And Christmas that comes so near. 



SONGS AND BALLADRY OF SCOTLAND 
(See also: AYTOUN, J. W. CARLYLE, MACAULAY, NICOLL, SCOTT) 



MY AIN WIFE 

I WADNA gi'e my ain wife 

For ony wife I see ; 
I wadna gi'e my ain wife 

For ony wife I see ; 
A bonnier yet I 've never seen, 

A better canna be 
1 wadna gi'e my ain wife 

For ony wife I see ! 

couthie is my ingle-cheek, 
An' cheerie is my Jean ; 



flatus 

I never see her angrv look, 
Nor hear her word on ane. 

She 's gude wi' a' the neebours roan' 
An' aye gude wi' me 

I wadna gTe my ain wife 
For ony wife I see. 

An* O her looks sae kindlie. 

They melt my heart outright, 
When o'er the baby at her breast 

She hangs wi' fond delight ; 
She looks intill its bonnie face, 

An' syne looks to me 
I wadna gi'e my ain wife 

tfor ony wife I see. 



So 



SONGS AND BALLADRY OF SCOTLAND 



THE SOWER'S SONG 

Now hands to seed-sheet, boys ! 

We step and we cast; old Time 's on wing; 
And would ye partake of Harvest's joys, 
The corn must be sown in spring. 
Fall gently and still, good corn, 
Lie warm in thy earthy bed; 
And stand so yellow some morn, 
For beast and man must be fed. 

Old earth is a pleasure to see 

In sunshiny cloak of red and green; 
The furrow lies fresh, this year will be 
As years that are past have been. 
Fall gently and still, good corn, 
Lie warm in thy earthy bed; 
And stand so yellow some morn, 
For beast and man must be fed. 

Old earth, receive this corn, 

The son of six thousand golden sires; 
All these on thy kindly breast were born; 
One more thy poor child requires. 
Fall gently and still, good corn, 
Lie warm in thy earthy bed; 
And stand so yellow some morn, 
For beast and man must be fed. 

Now steady and sure again, 

And measure of stroke and step we keep; 
Thus up and down we cast our grain; 
Sow well and you gladly reap. 

Fall gently and still, good corn, 
Lie warm in thy earthy bed ; 
And stand so yellow some morn, 
For beast and man must be fed. 



ADIEU 

LET time and chance combine, combine, 
Let time and chance combine; 

The fairest love from heaven above, 
That love of yours was mine, 

My dear, 
That love of yours was mine. 

The past is fled and gone, and gone, 

The past is fled and gone; 
If naught but pain to me remain, 

I '11 fare in memory on, 
My dear, 

I '11 fare in memory on. 

The saddest tears must fall, must fall, 

The saddest tears must fall; 
In weal or woe, in this world below, 

I love you ever and all, 
My dear, 

I love you ever and all. 

A long road full of pain, of pain, 

A long road full of pain; 
One soul, one heart, sworn ne'er to 

part, 
We ne'er can meet again, 

My dear, 
We ne'er can meet again. 

Hard fate will not allow, allow, 

Hard fate will not allow; 
We blessed were as the angels are, 

Adieu forever now, 
My dear, 

Adieu forever now. 



fcofiert 4WlfiHan 



'T IS SAIR TO DREAM 

'T is sair to dream o' them we like, 
That waking we sail never see ; 

Yet, oh ! how kindly was the smile 
My laddie in my sleep gave me ! 

I thought we sat beside the burn 

That wimples down the flowery glen, 



Where, in our early days o' love, 
We met that ne'er sail meet again ! 

The simmer sun sank 'neath the wave, 
And gladden'd, wi' his parting ray, 

The woodland wild and valley green, 
Fast fading into gloamin' grey. 

He talk'd of days o' future joy, 
And yet my heart was haflins sair. 



GILFILLAN MOIR 



81 



For when his eye it beam'd on me, 

A withering death-like glance was there ! 

I thought him dead, and then I thought 

That life was young and love was free, 
For o'er our heads the mavis sang, 

And hameward hied the janty bee ! 
We pledged our love and plighted troth, 

But cauld, cauld was the kiss he gave, 
When starting from my dream, I found 

His troth was plighted to the grave ! 

I canna weep, for hope is fled, 

And nought would do but silent mourn, 
Were 't no for dreams that should na come, 

To whisper back my love's return ; 
'T is sair to dream o' them we like, 

That waking we sail never see; 
Yet, oh ! how kindly was the smile 

My laddie in my sleep gave me ! 

THE EXILE'S SONG 

OH ! why left I my hame ? 

Why did I cross the deep ? 
Oh ! why left I the land 

Where my forefathers sleep ? 
I sigh for Scotia's shore, 

And I gaze across the sea, 



But I canna get a blink 
O' my aiu eouutrie. 

The palm-tree waveth high, 

And fair the myrtle springs; 
And, to the Indian maid, 

The bulbul sweetly sings. 
But I diuna see the broom 

Wi' its tassels on the lee, 
Nor hear the lintie's sang 

O' my a in countrie. 

Oh ! here no Sabbath bell 

Awakes the Sabbath morn, 
Nor song of reapers heard 

Amang the yellow corn : 
For the tyrant's voice is here, 

And the wail of slaverie; 
But the sun of freedom shines 

In my ain countrie. 

There 's a hope for every woe, 

And a balm for every pain, 
But the first joys o' our heart 

Come never back again. 
There 's a track upon the deep, 

And a path across the sea; 
But the weary ne'er return 

To their ain countrie. 



Datofc a$acbctl) 



CASA'S DIRGE 

VAINLY for us the sunbeams shine, 

Dimm'd is our joyous hearth; 
O Casa, dearer dust than thine 

Ne'er mix'd with mother earth ! 
Thou wert the corner-stone of love, 

The keystone of our fate ; 
Thou art not ! Heaven scowls dark above, 

And earth is desolate. 

Ocean may rave with billows curl'd, 

And moons may wax and wane, 
And fresh flowers blossom ; but this world 

Shall claim not thee again. 
Clos'd are the eyes which bade rejoice 

Our hearts till love ran o'er; 
Thy smile is vanish'd, and thy voice 

Silent for evermore. 



Yes ; thou art gone our hearth's de 
light, 

Our boy so fond and dear; 
No more thy smiles to glad our sight, 

No more thy songs to cheer; 
No more thy presence, like the sun, 

To fill our home with joy: 
Like lightning hath thy race been rnn, 

As bright as swift, fair boy. 

Now winter with its snow departs, 

The green leaves clothe the tree; 
But summer smiles not on the hearts 

That bleed and break for thee: 
The young May weaves her flowery 
crown. 

Her boughs in beauty wave; 
They only shake their blossoms down 

Upon thy silent grave. 



82 



SONGS AND BALLADRY OF SCOTLAND 



Dear to our souls is every spot 

Where thy small feet have trod; 
There odors, breath'd from Eden, float, 

And sainted is the sod; 
The wild bee with its buglet fine, 

The blackbird singing free, 
Melt both thy mother's heart and mine: 

They speak to us of thee ! 

Only in dreams thou comest now 

From Heaven's immortal shore, 
A glory round that infant brow, 

Which Death's pale signet bore: 
'T was thy fond looks, 't was thy fond lips, 

That lent our joys their tone ; 
And life is shaded with eclipse, 

Since thou from earth art gone. 

Thine were the fond, endearing ways, 

That tenderest feeling prove ; 
A thousand wiles to win our praise, 

To claim and keep our love; 
Fondness for us thrill'd all thy veins; 

And, Casa, can it be 
That nought of all the past remains 

Except vain tears for thee ? 

Idly we watch thy form to trace 

In children on the street; 
Vainly, in each familiar place, 

We list thy pattering feet; 
Then, sudden, o'er these fancies crush'd, 

Despair's black pinions wave; 
We know that sound for ever hush'd: 

We look upon thy grave. 



O heavenly child of mortal birth ! 

Our thoughts of thee arise, 
Not as a denizen of earth, 

But inmate of the skies: 
To feel that life renew'd is thine 

A soothing balm imparts; 
We quaff from out Faith's cup divine, 

And Sabbath fills our hearts. 

Thou leanest where the fadeless wands 

Of amaranth bend o'er; 
Thy white wings brush the golden sands 

Of Heaven's refulgent shore. 
Thy home is where the psalm and song 

Of angels choir abroad, 
And blessed spirits, all day long, 

Bask round the throne of God. 

There chance and change are not; the soul 

Quaffs bliss as from a sea, 
And years, through endless ages, roll, 

From sin and sorrow free: 
There gush for aye fresh founts of joy, 

New raptures to impart; 
Oh ! dare we call thee still our boy, 

Who now a seraph art ? 

A little while a little while 

Ah ! long it cannot be ! 
And thou again on us wilt smile, 

Where angels smile on thee. 
How selfish is the worldly heart: 

How sinful to deplore ! 
Oh ! that we were where now thou art, 

Not lost, but gone before. 



THE MITHERLESS BAIRN 

WHEN a' ither bairnies are hush'd to their 

hame, 

By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, 
Wha stands last an' lanely, an' sairly for- 

f aim ? 
'T is the puir dowie laddie the mitherless 

bairn ! 

The mitherless bairnie creeps to his lane 

bed; 
Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare 

head; 



His wee hackit heelies are hard as the aim, 
An' lithless the lair o' the mitherless bairn. 

Aneath his cauld brow, siccan dreams hover 

there, 
O' hands that wont kindly to kaim his dark 

hair! 
But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' 

stern, 
That lo'e na the locks o' the mitherless bairn. 



The sister, wha sang o'er his saftly rock'd 

bed, 
Now rests in the niools whare their mammi 

is laid; 



' 



THOM AIRD BALLANTINE 



While the father toils sair his wee bannock 

to earn, 
An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless 

bairn. 

Her spirit that pass'd in yon hour of his 

birth 
Still watches his lone lorn waud'rings on 

earth, 
Recording in heaven the blessings they 

earn 



Wha couthilie deal wi* the raitherlea* 
bairn i 

Oh ! speak him na harshly he trembles 

the while, 
He bends to your biddiu', and blesses your 

smile: 
In the dark hour o' anguish, the heartless 

shall learn 
That God deals the blow for the mitherless 

bairn ! 



Ctjomag 3Ur& 



THE SWALLOW 



THE swallow, bonny birdie, comes sharp 

twittering o'er the sea, 
And gladly is her carol heard for the sunny 

days to be ; 
She shares not with us wintry glooms, but 

yet, no faithless thing, 
She hunts the summer o'er the earth with 

wearied little wing. 

The lambs like snow all nibbling go upon 
the ferny hills; 

Light winds are in the leafy woods, and 
birds, and bubbling rills ; 

Then welcome, little swallow, by our morn 
ing lattice heard, 

Because thou com'st when Nature bids 
bright days be thy reward ! 

Thine be sweet mornings with the bee 
that 's out for honey-dew; 



And glowing be the noontide for the grass- 

hopper and you; 
And mellow shine, o'er day's decline, the 

sun to light thee home: 
What can molest thy airy nest ? sleep till 

the day-spring come ! 

The river blue that rushes through the val 
ley hears thee sing, 

And murmurs much beneath the touch of 
thy light-dipping wing. 

The thunder -cloud, over us bowed, in 
deeper gloom is seen, 

When quick reliev'd it glances to thy 
bosom's silvery sheen. 

The silent Power, that brought thee back 

with leading-strings of love 
To haunts where first the summer sun fell 

on thee from above, 
Shall bind thee more to come aye to the 

music of our leaves, 
For here thy young, where thou hast sprung, 

shall glad thee in our eaves. 



MUCKLE-MOU'D MEG 



2>alfantine 



1 OH, wha hae ye brought us hame now, my 

brave lord, 

Strappit flaught ower his braid saddle 
bow? 






Some bauld Border reiver to feast at our 
board, 

An' herry our pantry, I trow. 
He 's buirdly an' stalwart in lith an' in limb; 

Gin ye were his master in war 
The field was a saft enough litter for him, 

Ye needna hae brought him sae far. 



SONGS AND BALLADRY OF SCOTLAND 



Then saddle an' munt again, harness an' 

dunt again, 

i' when ye gae hunt again, strike higher 
game." 

" Hoot, whisht ye, my dame, for he comes 

o' gude kin, 

An' boasts o' a lang pedigree ; 
This night he maun share o' our gude cheer 

within, 

At morning's grey dawn he maun dee. 
He 's gallant Wat Scott, heir o' proud 

Harden Ha', 

Wha ettled our lands clear to sweep ; 
But now he is snug in auld Elibaiik's paw, 

An' shall swing frae our donjon-keep. 
Tho' saddle an' munt again, harness an' 

dunt again, 

I '11 ne'er when I hunt again strike higher 
game." 

" Is this young Wat Scott ? an' wad ye rax 

his craig, 

When our daughter is fey for a man ? 
Gae, gaur the loun marry our muckle- 

mou'd Meg, 

Or we '11 ne'er get the jaud aff our han' ! " 
" Od ! hear our gudewife, she wad fain save 

your life ; 

Wat Scott, will ye marry or hang ? " 
But Meg's muckle mou set young Wat's 

heart agrue, 

Wha swore to the woodie he 'd gang. 
Ne'er saddle nor munt again, harness nor 
dunt again, 



An 



Wat ne'er shall hunt again, ne'er see his 
hame. 

Syne muckle-mou'd Meg press'd in close to 

his side, 

An' blinkit fu' sleely and kind, 
But aye as Wat glower'd at his braw prof- 

fer'd bride, 

He shook like a leaf in the wind. 

" A bride or a gallows, a rope or a wife ! " 

The morning dawn'd sunny and clear 

Wat boldly strode forward to part wi' his 

life, 

Till he saw Meggy shedding a tear ; 
Then saddle an' munt again, harness an* 

dunt again, 
Fain wad Wat hunt again, fain wad be hame. 

Meg's tear touch'd his bosom, the gibbet 

frown'd high, 

An' slowly Wat strode to his doom ; 
He gae a glance round wi' a tear in his 

eye, 

Meg shone like a star through the gloom. 
She rush'd to his arms, they were wed on 

the spot, 

An' lo'ed ither muckle and lang ; 
Nae bauld border laird had a wife like Wat 

Scott ; 

'T was better to marry than hang. 
So saddle an' munt again, harness an' dunt 

again, 
Elibank hunt again, Wat 's snug at hame. 

(Compare R. BROWNING, p. 364.} 



MY BATH 

(Scene Kinnaird Burn, near Pitlochrie.) 

COME here, good people great and small, 

that wander far abroad, 
To drink of drumly German wells, and 

make a weary road 
To Baden and to Wiesbaden, and how they 

all are nam'd, 
To Carlsbad and to Kissingen, for healing 

virtue fam'd ; 
Come stay at home, and keep your feet from 

dusty travel free, 



And I will show you what rare bath a good 
God gave to me ; 

'T is hid among the Highland hills beneath 
the purple brae, 

With cooling freshness free to all, nor doc 
tor's fee to pay. 

No craft of mason made it here, nor carpen 
ter, I wot ; 

Nor tinkering fool with hammering tool to 
shape the charmed spot ; 

But down the rocky-breasted glen the foamy 
torrent falls 

Into the amber caldron deep, fenced round 
with granite walls. 



JOHN STUART BLACKIE 



Nor gilded beam, nor pictur'd dome, nor 

curtain, roofs it in, 
But the blue sky rests, and white clouds 

float, above the bubbling linn, 
Where God's own hand hath scoop'd it out 

in Nature's Titan hall, 
And from her cloud-fed fountains drew its 

waters free to all. 

Oh come and see my Highland bath, and 

prove its freshening flood, 
And spare to taint your skin with swathes 

of druinly German mud : 
Come plunge with me into the wave like 

liquid topaz fair, 
And to the waters give your back that 

spout down bravely there ; 
Then float upon the swirling flood, and, like 

a glancing trout, 
Plash about, and dash about, and make a 

lively rout, 
And to the gracious sun display the glory 

of your skin, 
As you dash about and splash about in the 

foamy-bubbling linn. 

Oh come and prove my bonnie bath ; in 

sooth 't is furnish'd well 
With trees, and shrubs, and spreading ferns, 

all in the rocky dell, 
And roses hanging from the cliff in grace 

of white and red, 

And little tiny birches nodding lightly over 
head, 
And spiry larch with purple cones, and tips 

of virgin green, 
And leafy shade of hazel copse with sunny 

glints between : 
Oh might the Roman wight be here who 

praised Bandusia's well, 
He 'd find a bath to Nymphs more dear in 

my sweet Highland dell. 

Some folks will pile proud palaces, and 
some will wander far 

To scan the blinding of a sun, or the blink 
ing of a star ; 

Some sweat through Afric's burning sands ; 
and some will vex their soul 

To find heaven knows what frosty prize be 
neath the Arctic pole. 

God bless them all ; and may they find what 
thing delights them well 

In east or west, or north or south, but I 
at home will dwell 



Where fragrant ferns their fronds uncurl, 
and healthful breeze* play, 

And clear brown waters grandly swirl be 
neath the purple brae. 

Oh come and prove my Highland bath, the 

burn, and all the glen, 
Hard-toiling wights in dingy nooks, and 

scribes with inky pen, 
Strange thoughtful men with curious quests 

that vex your fretful brains, 
And scheming sons of trade who fear to 

count your slippery gains ; 
Come wander up the burn with me, and 

thread the winding glen, 
And breathe the healthful power that flows 

down from the breezy Ben, 
And plunge you in the deep brown pool ; 

and from beneath the spray 
You'll come forth like a flower that blooms 

'neath freshening showers in May ! 



THE EMIGRANT LASSIE 

As I came wandering down Glen Spean, 
Where the braes are green and grassy, 

With my light step I overtook 
A weary-footed lassie. 

She had one bundle on her back, 

Another in her hand, 
And she walk'd as one who was full loath 

To travel from the land. 

Quoth I, " My bonnie lass ! " for she 

Had hair of flowing gold, 
And dark brown eyes, and dainty limbs, 

Right pleasant to behold 

" My bonnie lass, what aileth thee, 

On this bright summer day, 
To travel sad and shoeless thus 

Upon the stony way ? 

" I 'm fresh and strong, and stoutly shod, 

And thou art burden'd so ; 
March lightly now, and let me bear 

The bundles as we go." 

" No, no ! " she said, " that may not be ; 

What 's mine is mine to bear ; 
Of good or ill, as God may will, 

I take my portion'd share." 



86 



SONGS AND BALLADRY OF SCOTLAND 



" But you have two, and I have none j 

One burden give to me ; 
I '11 take that bundle from thy back 

That heavier seems to be." 

" No, no ! " she said ; " this, if you will, 
That holds no hand but mine 

May bear its weight from dear Gleu Spean 
'Cross the Atlantic brine ! " 

Well, well ! but tell me what may be 

Within that precious load, 
Which thou dost bear with such fine care 

Along the dusty road ? 

" Belike it is some present rare 

Rrom friend in parting hour ; 
Perhaps, as prudent maidens wont, 

Thou tak'st with thee thy dower." 

She droop 'd her head, and with her hand 

She gave a mournful wave : 
" Oh, do not jest, dear sir ! it is 

Turf from my mother's grave ! " 

I spoke no word : we sat and wept 

By the road-side together ; 
No purer dew on that bright day 

Was dropp'd upon the heather. 

THE WORKING MAN'S SONG 

I AM no gentleman, not I ! 

No bowing, scraping thing ! 
I bear my head more free and high 

Than titled count or king. 
I am no gentleman, not I ! 

No, no, no ! 

And only to one Lord on high 
My head I bow. 

I am no gentleman, not I ! 
No vain and varnish'd thing ! 



And from my heart} without a die, 

My honest thoughts I fling. 
I am no gentleman, not I ! 

No, no, no ! 
Our stout John Knox was none and why 

Should I be so ? 

I am no gentleman, not I ! 

No mincing, modish thing, 
In gay saloon a butterfly, 

Some wax-doll Miss to wing. 
I am no gentleman, not I ! 

No, no, no ! 

No moth, to sport in fashion's eye, 
A Bond Street beau. 

I am no gentleman, not I ! 

No bully, braggart thing, 
With jockeys on the course to vie, 

With bull-dogs in the ring. 
I am no gentleman, not I ! 

No, no, no ! 

The working man might sooner die 
Than sink so low. 

I am no gentleman, not I ! 
No star-bedizen'd thing ! 
My fathers filch'd no dignity, 

By fawning to a king. 
I am no gentleman, not I ! 

No, no, no ! 

And to the wage of honesty 
My rank I owe. 

I am no gentleman, not I ! 

No bowing, scraping thing ! 
I bear my head more free and high 

Than titled count or king. 
I am no gentleman, not I ! 

No, no, no ! 

And thank the blessed God on high, 
Who made me so 1 



WILLIE WINKIE 

WEE Willie Winkie rins through the town, 
Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown, 
Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, 
u Are the weans in their bed ? for it 's 
now ten o'clock.'* 



Hey, Willie Winkie ! are ye comin' ben ? 
The cat 's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' 

hen, 
The doug 's spelder'd on the floor, and disna 

gie a cheep ; 
But here 's a waukrife laddie, that winna 

fa' asleep. 



MILLER MACKAY 



Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue ! glow'rin' 
like the moon, 

Rattlin' in an aim jug wi' an aim spoon, 

Runiblin', tuinblin' roun' about, era win' like 
a cock, 

Skirlin' like a keuna-what wauknin' sleep- 
in' folk ! 



Hey, Willie Winkle ! the wean ' in a 

creel J 
Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera 

eel, 
Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a* 

her thrums : 
Hey, Willie Winkie ! See, there be comet! 



TELL ME, YE WINGED WINDS 

TELL me, ye winged winds, 

That round my pathway roar, 
Do ye not know some spot 

Where mortals weep no more ? 
Some lone and pleasant dell, 

Some valley in the west, 
Where, free from toil and pain, 

The weary soul may rest ? 
loud wind dwindled to a whisper low, 
sigh'd for pity as it answer'd, " No." 

Tell me, thou mighty deep, 

Whose billows round me play, 
Knowst thou some favor'd spot, 

Some island far away, 
Where weary man may find 

The bliss for which he sighs, 
Where sorrow never lives, 

And friendship never dies ? 
loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow, 
>pp'd for a while, and sigh'd to answer, 
" No." 

And thou, serenest moon, 

That, with such lovely face, 
Dost look upon the earth 

Asleep in night's embrace ; 
Tell me, in all thy round 

Hast thou not seen some spot 
Where miserable man 

May find a happier lot ? 
Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe, 
And a voice, sweet but sad, responded, 
" No." 

Tell me, my secret soul, 

Oh ! tell me, Hope and Faith, 

Is there no resting-place 

From sorrow, sin, and death ? 



Is there no happy spot 

Where mortals may be blest, 
Where grief may find a balm, 

And weariness a rest ? 
Faith, Hope, and Love, best boons to mortals 

given, 

Wav'd their bright wings, and whisper'd l 
" Yes, in heaven." 



EARL NORMAN AND JOHN 
TRUMAN 

THROUGH great Earl Norman's acres wide, 

A prosperous and a good land, 
'T will take you fifty miles to ride 

O'er grass, and corn, and woodland. 
His age is sixty-nine, or near, 

And I 'm scarce twenty-two, man, 
And have but fifty pounds a year, 

Poor John Truman ! 
But would I change ? I' faith ! not I, 

Oh no I not I, says Truman 1 

Earl Norman dwells in halls of state, 

The grandest in the county ; 
Has forty cousins at his gate, 

To feed upon his bounty. 
But then he *s deaf the doctors' care, 

While I in whispers woo, man, 
And find my physic in the air, 

Stout John Truman ! 
D 'ye think I 'd change for thrice his gold ? 

Oh no 1 not I, says Truman 1 

Earl Norman boasts a gartered knee, 

A proof of royal graces ; 
I wear, by Nelly wrought for me, 

A silken pair of braces. 
He sports a star upon his breast, 

And I a violet blue, man, 



IRISH MINSTRELSY 



The gift of her who loves me best, 

Proud John Truman ! 
I 'd he myself, and not the Earl, 

Oh, that would I, says Truman. 

WHAT MIGHT BE DONE 

WHAT might be done if men were wise 
What glorious deeds, my suffering 

brother, 

Would they unite 
In love and right, 
And cease their scorn of one another ? 

Oppression's heart might be imbued 
With kindling drops of loving-kindness, 
And knowledge pour, 
From shore to shore, 
Light on the eyes of mental blindness. 



All slavery, warfare, lies, and wrongs, 
All vice and crime, might die together ; 

And wine and corn, 

To each man born, 
Be free as warmth in summer weather. 

The meanest wretch that ever trod, 
The deepest sunk in guilt and sorrow, 

Might stand erect 

In self-respect, 
And share the teeming world to-morrow. 

What might be done ? This might be 

done, 
And more than this, my suffering 

brother 

More than the tongue 
E'er said or sung 1 , 
If men were wise and lov'd each other. 



IRISH MINSTRELSY 

INCLUDING THE POETS OF YOUNG IRELAND 

(See also: DEVERE, MAGINN, MAHONY, SIMMONS) 



&mtuicl Stobcr 



RORY O'MORE; OR, GOOD 
OMENS 

YOUNG Rory O'More courted Kathleen 

Bawn, 
He was bold as a hawk, she as soft as 

the dawn ; 
He wish'd in his heart pretty Kathleen to 

please, 
And he thought the best way to do that 

was to tease. 
"Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen 

would cry 
(Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her 

eye), 
" With your tricks I don't know, in troth, 

what I 'm about, 
Faith you've teas'd till I've put on my 

cloak inside out." 
"Oh ! jewel," says Rory, "that same is the 

way 



You 've thrated my heart for this many a 

day; 
And 't is plaz'd that I am, and why not to 

be sure ? 
For 't is all for good luck," says bold Rory 

O'More. 

" Indeed, then," says Kathleen, " don't think 

of the like, 
For I half gave a promise to soothering 

Mike ; 
The ground that I walk on he loves, I '11 be 

bound." 
" Faith," says Rory, I 'd rather love you 

than the ground." 

" Now, Rory, I '11 cry if you don't let me go ; 
Sure I drame ev'ry night that I 'm hating 

you so ! " 

"Oh," says Rory, "that same I 'm de 
lighted to hear, 
For drames always go by conthrairies, my 

dear ; 



SAMUEL LOVER 



89 



Oh ! jewel, keep draining that same till 

you die, 
bright morning will give dirty night 

the black lie ! 

't is plaz'd that I am, and why not, to 
be sure ? 

'tis all for good luck," says bold 
Rory O'More. 

'Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've 
teas'd me enough, 

I 've thrash'd for your sake Dinny 
Grimes and Jim Duff ; 
I've made myself, drinking your 
health, quite a baste, 
I think, after that, I may talk to the 

praste." 
;n Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round 

her neck, 
soft and so white, without freckle or 

speck, 

he look'd in her eyes that were beam 
ing with light, 
Lnd he kiss'd her sweet lips ; don't you 

think he was right ? 
Now Rory, leave off, sir ; you '11 hug me 

no more, 
it 's eight times to-day you have kiss'd 

me before." 
'Then here goes another," says he, "to 

make sure, 

there 's luck in odd numbers," says 
Rory O'More. 



WIDOW MACHREE 

r iDOW Machree, it 's no wonder you frown, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree. 
lith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty 

black gown, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree. 
How alter'd your air, 
With that close cap you wear 
' T is destroying your hair 

Which should be flowing free ; 
Be no longer a churl 
Of its black silken curl, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree I 

Widow Machree, now the summer is come, 
Och hone ! W T idow Machree, 



When everything smiles, should a beauty 
look glum ? 

Och hone ! Widow Machrec. 
See the birds go in pairs, 
And the rabbits and hares 
Why even the bears 

Now in couples agree ; 
And the mute little fish, 
Though they can't spake, they wish, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree. 

Widow Machree, and when winter 



Och hone ! Widow Machree, 
To be poking the fire all alone is a sin, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree. 
Sure the shovel and tongs 
To each other belongs, 
And the kettle sings songs 

Full of family glee ; 
While alone with your cup, 
Like a hermit, you sup, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree. 

And how do you know, with the comforts 

I 've towld, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree, 
But you 're keeping some poor fellow out in 

the cowld ? 

Och hone ! Widow Machree. 
With such sins on your head 
Sure your peace would be fled, 
Could you sleep in your bed 
Without thinking to see 
Some ghost or some sprite, 
That would wake you each night, 

Crying, " Och hone ! Widow Ma 
chree " ? 

Then take my advice, darling Widow Ma 
chree, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree. 
And with my advice, faith I wish you'd 
take me, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree. 
You 'd have me to desire 
Then to sit by the fire, 
And sure Hope is no liar 

In whispering to me, 
That the ghosts would depart, 
When you 'd me near your heart, 

Och hone I Widow Machree. 






9 



IRISH MINSTRELSY 



1 SOGGARTH AROON 

AM I the slave they say, 
Soggarth aroon ? l 

Since you did show the way, 
Soggarth aroon, 

Their slave no more to be, 

While they would work with me 
Old Ireland's slavery, - 
Soggarth aroon. 

Why not her poorest man, 

Soggarth aroon, 
Try and do all he can, 

Soggarth aroon, 
Her commands to fulfil 
Of his own heart and will, 
Side by side with you still, 

Soggarth aroon ? 

Loyal and brave to you, 

Soggarth aroon, 
Yet be not slave to you, 

Soggarth aroon, 
Nor, out of fear to you, 
Stand up so near to you 
Och ! out of fear to you, 

Soggarth aroon ! 

Who, in the winter's night, 

Soggarth aroon, 
When the cold blast did bite, 

Soggarth aroou, 



Came to my cabin-door, 
And on my earthen-floor 
Knelt by me, sick and poor, 
Soggarth aroou ? 

Who, on the marriage day, 

Soggarth aroon, 
Made the poor cabin gay, 

Soggarth aroon. 
And did both laugh and sing, 
Making our hearts to ring 
At the poor christening, 

Soggarth aroon ? 

Who, as friend only met, 

Soggarth aroon, 
Never did flout me yet, 

Soggarth aroon ; 
And when my hearth was dim, 
Gave, while his eye did brim, 
What I should give to him, 

Soggarth aroon ? 

Och ! you, and only you, 

Soggarth aroon ! 
And for this I was true to you, 

Soggarth aroon ! 

Our love they '11 never shake, 

When for ould Ireland's sake 

We a true part did take, 

Soggarth aroon ! 



A PLACE IN THY MEMORY 

A PLACE in thy memory, Dearest ! 

Is all that I claim : 
To pause and look back when thou nearest 

The sound of my name. 
Another may woo thee, nearer ; 

Another may win and wear; 
I care not though he be dearer, 

If I am remember'd there. 

Sdgart ar&n 



Remember me, not as a lover 

Whose hope was cross'd, 
Whose bosom can never recover 

The light it hath lost ! 
As the young bride remembers the mothei 

She loves, though she never may see, 
As a sister remembers a brother, 

O Dearest, remember me 1 

Could I be thy true lover, Dearest 1 

Couldst thou smile on me, 
Priest, dear. 



GRIFFIN MANGAN 



would be the fondest and deairst 
That ever lov'd thee : 

a cloud on my pathway is glooming 
That never must burst upon thine ; 

heaven, that made thee all blooming, 
Ne'er made thee to wither on mine. 

>mber me then ! O remember 
My calm light love, 
jugh bleak as the blasts of November 
My life may prove ! 
hat life will, though lonely, be sweet 
If its brightest enjoyment should be 
smile and kind word when we meet 
And a place in thy memory. 

NOCTURNE 

SLEEP that like the couched dove 

Broods o'er the weary eye, 
Dreams that with soft heavings move 

The heart of memory, 
Labor's guerdon, golden rest, 
Wrap thee in its downy vest, 
Fall like comfort on thy brain 
And sing the hush song to thy pain I 



Far from thee be startling fears, 
And dreams the guilty dream ; 
No banshee scare thy drowsy ears 

With her ill-omeu'd scream ; 
But tones of fairy minstrelsy 
Float like the ghosts of sound o'er thee, 
Soft as the chapel's distant ln-11, 
And lull thee to a sweet farewell. 

Ye for whom the ashy hearth 
The fearful housewife clears, 

Ye whose tiny sounds of mirth 
The nighted carman hears, 

Ye whose pygmy hammers make 

The wonderers of the cottage wake, 

Noiseless be your airy flight, 

Silent as the still moonlight. 

Silent go, and harmless come, 

Fairies of the stream : 
Ye, who love the winter gloom 

Or the gay moonbeam, 
Hither bring your drowsy store 
Gather'd from the bright lusmore ; 
Shake o'er temples, soft and deep, 
The comfort of the poor man, sleep. 



Clarence 



DARK ROSALEEN 

MY Dark Rosaleen, 

Do not sigh, do not weep ! 

ic priests are on the ocean green, 

They march along the deep. 
There 's wine from the royal Pope, 

Upon the ocean green ; 
And Spanish ale shall give you hope, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 
Shall glad your heart, shall give you 

hope, 

Shall give you health, and help, and 
hope, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

Over hills, and through dales, 
Have I roam'd for your sake ; 

All yesterday I sail'd with sails 
On river and on lake. 



The Erne, at its highest flood, 

I dash'd across unseen, 
For there was lightning in my blood, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 
O ! there was lightning in my blood, 
Red lightning lighten'd through my blood, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

All day long, in unrest, 

To and fro, do I move, 
The very soul within my breast 

Is wasted for you, love ! 
The heart in my bosom faints 

To think of you, my queen, 
My life of life, my saint of saints, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 

To hear your sweet and sad complaints, 
My life, my love, my saint of saints, 

My Dark Rosaleen I 



IRISH MINSTRELSY 



Woe and pain, pain and woe, 

Are my lot, night and noon, 
To see your bright face clouded so, 

Like to the mournful moon. 
But yet will I rear your throne 

Again in golden sheen ; 
'T is you shall reign, shall reign alone, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 

'T is you shall have the golden throne, 
'T is you shall reign, and reign alone, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

Over dews, over sands, 

Will I fly for your weal : 
Tour holy, delicate white hands 

Shall girdle me with steel. 
At home in your emerald bowers, 

From morning's dawn till e'en, 
You '11 pray for me, my flower of flowers, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My fond Rosaleen ! 
You '11 think of me through daylight's 

hours, 
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

I could scale the blue air, 

I could plough the high hills, 
O, I could kneel all night in prayer, 

To heal your many ills ! 
And one beamy smile from you 

Would float like light between 
My toils and me, my own, my true, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My fond Rosaleen ! 
Would give me life and soul anew, 
A second life, a soul anew, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

O ! the Erne shall run red 

With redundance of blood, 
The earth shall rock beneath our tread, 

And flames warp hill and wood, 
And gun-peal and slogan cry 

Wake many a glen serene, 
Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 

The Judgment Hour must first be nigh, 
Ere you can fade, ere you can die, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 



SOUL AND COUNTRY 

ARISE, my slumbering soul ! arise, 
And learn what yet remains for thee 

To dree or do ! 

The signs are flaming in the skies ; 
A struggling world would yet be free, 

And live anew. 

The earthquake hath not yet been born 
That soon shall rock the lands around, 

Beneath their base ; 
Immortal Freedom's thunder horn 
As yet yields but a doleful sound 

To Europe's race. 

Look round, my soul ! and see, and say 
If those about thee understand 

Their mission here : 
The will to smite, the power to slay, 
Abound in every heart and hand 

Afar, anear ; 

But, God ! must yet the conqueror's sword 
Pierce mind, as heart, in this proud year ? 

O, dream it not ! 

It sounds a false, blaspheming word, 
Begot and born of moral fear, 

And ill-begot. 

To leave the world a name is nought : 
To leave a name for glorious deeds 

And works of love, 
A name to waken lightning thought 
And fire the soul of him who reads, 

This tells above. 
Napoleon sinks to-day before 
The ungilded shrine, the single soul 

Of Washington : 

Truth's name alone shall man adore 
Long as the waves of Time shall roll 

Henceforward on. 

My countrymen ! my words are weak : 
My health is gone, my soul is dark, 

My heart is chill ; 
Yet would I fain and fondly seek 
To see you borne in freedom's bark 

O'er ocean still. 

Beseech your God ! and bide your hour I 
He cannot, will not long be dumb : 

Even now his tread 

Is heard o'er earth with coming power ; 
And coming, trust me, it will come, 

Else were He dead. 



LADY DUFFERIN CAROLINE NORTON 



93 



dina, Sabp SDufferin 



LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMI 
GRANT 

I *M sittin' on the stile, Mary, 

Where we sat side by side 
On a bright May mornin' long ago, 

When first you were my bride. 
The corn was springin' fresh and green, 

And the lark sang loud and high, 
And the red was on your lip, Mary, 

And the love-light in your eye. 

The place is little changed, Mary, 

The day is bright as then, 
The lark's loud song is in my ear, 

And the corn is green again ; 
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, 

And your breath, warm on my cheek : 
And I still keep list'nin' for the words 

You never more will speak. 

'T is but a step down yonder lane, 

And the little church stands near 
The church where we were wed, Mary ; 

I see the spire from here, 
t the graveyard lies between, Mary, 

And my step might break your rest 
For I 've laid you, darling, down to sleep, 

With your baby on your breast. 

I 'm very lonely now, Mary, 

For the poor make no new friends ; 
But, oh ! they love the better still 

The few our Father sends. 
And you were all I had, Mary, 

My blessin' and my pride : 
There 's nothing left to care for now, 

Since my poor Mary died. 



Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, 

That still kept hoping on, 
When the trust in God had left my soul, 

And my arm's young strength wu 

gone; 
There was comfort ever on your lip, 

And the kind look on your brow 
I bless you, Mary, for that same, 

Though you cannot hear me now. 

I thank you for the patient smile 

When your heart was fit to break, 
When the hunger pain was gnawiu' there, 

And you hid it for my sake ; 
I bless you for the pleasant word, 

When your heart was sad and sore 
Oh ! I 'in thankful you are gone, Mary, 

Where grief can't reach you more ! 

I 'm biddin' you a long farewell, 

My Mary kind and true ! 
But I '11 not forget you, darling, 

In the land I m goin' to : 
They say there 's bread and work for 
all, 

And the sun shines always there, 
But I '11 not forget old Ireland, 

Were it fifty times as fair ! 

And often in those grand old woods 

I '11 sit, and shut my eyes, 
And my heart will travel back again 

To the place where Mary lies ; 
And I '11 think I see the little stile 

Where we sat side by side, 
And the springiu' corn, and the bright MJ 
morn. 

When first you were my bride. 



Caroline Iija6ert) araf> 

(LADY STIRLING-MAXWELL) 



WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TO-r 
GETHER 

WE have been friends together, 

In sunshine and in shade ; 
Since first l>eneath the chestnut-trees 

In infancy we played. 



But coldness dwells within thy heart, 

A cloud is on thy brow ; 
We have been friends together 

Shall a light word part us now ? 



- have been gay 

Ye have laugh'd at little jests ; 



94 



IRISH MINSTRELSY 



For the fount of hope was gushing 
Warm and joyous in our breasts. 

But laughter now hath fled thy lip, 
And sullen glooms thy brow ; 

We have been gay together 
Shall a light word part us now ? 

We have been sad together, 

We have wept, with bitter tears, 
O'er the grass-grown graves, where slum- 
ber'd 

The hopes of early years. 
The voices which are silent there 

Would bid thee clear thy brow ; 
We have been sad together 

Oh ! what shall part us now ? 

THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE 

WORD was brought to the Danish king 

(Hurry !) 

That the love of his heart lay suffering, 
And pin'd for the comfort his voice would 
bring ; 

(Oh ! ride as though you were flying !) 
Better he loves each golden curl 
On the brow of that Scandinavian girl 
Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and 
pearl ; 

And his rose of the isles is dying ! 

Thirty nobles saddled with speed, 

(Hurry !) 

Each one mounting a gallant steed 
Which he kept for battle and days of need ; 

(Oh ! ride as though you were flying !) 
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank ; 
Worn-out chargers stagger'd and sank ; 
Bridles were slacken'd, and girths were 

burst ; 
But ride as they would, the king rode first, 

For his rose of the isles lay dying ! 

His nobles are beaten, one by one ; 

(Hurry !) 

They have fainted, and falter'd, and home 
ward gone ; 
His little fair page now follows alone, 

For strength and for courage trying. 
The king look'd back at that faithful* child ; 
Wan was the face that answering smiFd ; 
They passed the drawbridge with clattering 

din, 
Then he dropp'd ; and only the king roc's in 

Where his rose of the isles lay dy .ig ! 



The king blew a blast on his bugle horn ; 

(Silence !) 

No answer came ; but faint and forlorn 
An echo return'd on the cold gray morn, 

Like the breath of a spirit sighing. 
The castle portal stood grimly wide ; 
None welcom'd the king from that weary 

ride ; 

For dead, in the light of the dawning day 9 
The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, 

Who had yearu'd for his voice while 
dying ! 

The panting steed, with a drooping crest, 

Stood weary. 

The king return'd from her chamber of rest. 
The thick sobs choking in his breast ; 

And, that dumb companion eyeing, 
The tears gush'd forth which he strove to 

check ; 

He bowed his head on his charger's neck : 
" O steed that every nerve didst strain, 
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain 

To the halls where my love lay dying ! " 

LOVE NOT 

LOVE not, love not ! ye hapless sons of clay ! 
Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly 

flowers 

Things that are made to fade and fall away 
Ere they have blossom 'd for a few short 

hours. 

Love not ! 

Love not ! the thing ye love may change : 
The rosy lip may cease to smile on you, 
The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and 

strange, 

The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. 
Love not ! 

Love not ! the thing you love may die, 
May perish from the gay and gladsome 

earth ; 

The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, . 
Beam o'er its grave, as once upon its birth. 
Love not I 

Love not ! oh warning vainly said 

In present hours as in the years gone by ; 

Love flings a halo round the dear ones' 

head, 

Faultless, immortal, till they change or die 
Love not 1 



IRISH MINSTRELSY 



95 



frantic WMct 



KITTY NEIL 

"An, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from 'that 

wheel, 
Your neat little foot will be weary from 

spinning ; 

Come trip down with me to the sycamore- 
tree, 
Half the parish is there, and the dance 

is beginning. 

The sun is gone down, but the full harvest- 
moon 
Shines sweetly and cool on the dew- 

whiten'd valley, 
While all the air rings with the soft, loving 

things 

Each little bird sings in the green 
shaded alley." 

With a blush and a smile Kitty rose up the 

while, 
Her eye in the glass, as she bound her 

hair, glancing ; 
'T is hard to refuse when a young lover 

sues, 
So she couldn't but choose to go 

off to the dancing. 
And now on the green the glad groups are 

seen, * 
Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of 

his choosing ; 
And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet 

Kitty Neil, 

Somehow, when he ask'd, she ne'er 
thought of refusing. 

Now, Felix Magee puts his pipes to his 

knee, 
And with flourish so free sets each 

couple in motion ; 
With a cheer and a bound, the lads patter 

the ground, 
The maids move around just like swans 

on the ocean : 
Cheeks bright as the rose feet light as 

the doe's, 

Now coyly retiring, now boldly ad 
vancing 



Search the world all round, from the sky 

to the ground, 

No such sight can be found as an 
Irish lass dancing ! 

Sweet Kate ! who could view your bright 

eyes of deep blue, 
Beaming humidly through their dark 

lashes so mildly, 
Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, 

rounded form, 
Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses 

throb wildly j 

Young Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, de 
part, 
Subdued by the smart of such painful 

yet sweet love ; 
The sight leaves his eye, as he cries with a 

sigh, 

" Dance light, for my heart it lies under 
your feet, love ! " 

A SPINNING-WHEEL SONG 

MELLOW the moonlight to shine is begin 
ning ; 

Close by the window young Eileen is spin 
ning ; 
Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother, 

sitting, 
Is croaning, and moaning, and drowsily 

knitting : 

" Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping." 
"'Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the 

glass flapping." 

" Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing." 
" 'T is the sound, mother dear, of the sum 
mer wind dying." 
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, 
Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the 

foot 's stirring ; 

Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, 
Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden 
singing. 

" What 's that noise that I hear at the win 
dow, I wonder?" 

" 'T is the little birds chirping the holly- 
bush under." 



9 6 



IRISH MINSTRELSY 



" What makes you be shoving and moving 

your stool on, 
And singing all wrong that old song of 

'TheCoolun?'" 
There 'a a form at the casement the form 

of her true-love 
And he whispers, with face bent, " I 'm 

waiting for you, love ; 
Get up on the stool, through the lattice 

step lightly, 
We '11 rove in the grove while the moon 's 

shining brightly." 
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, 
Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the 

foot 's stirring ; 

Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ring 
ing, 
Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden 

singing. 

The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays 
her fingers, 



Steals up from her seat longs to go, and 

yet lingers ; 
A frighten'd glance turns to her drowsy 

grandmother, 
Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel 

with the other. 
Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel 

round ; 
Slowly and slowly is heard now the reel's 

sound ; 
Noiseless and light to the lattice above 

her 
The maid steps then leaps to the arms 

of her lover. 
Slower and slower and slower the 

wheel swings ; 
Lower and lower and lower the reel 

rings ; 
Ere the reel and the wheel stopp'd their 

ringing and moving, 
Through the grove the young lovers by 

moonlight are roving. 



^Samuel 



THE FAIRY THORN 

AN ULSTER BALLAD 

" GET up, our Anna dear, from the weary 

spinning wheel ; 
For your father 's oh the hill, and your 

mother is asleep ; 
Come up above the crags, and we '11 dance 

a highland reel 
Around the fairy thorn on the steep." 

At Anna Grace's door 't was thus the maid 
ens cried, 
Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the 

green ; 
And Anna laid the sock and the weary wheel 

aside, 
The fairest of the four, I ween. 

They 're glancing through the glimmer of 

the quiet eve, 
Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle 

bare ; 
The heavy-sliding stream in its sleepy song 

they leave, 
And the crags in the ghostly air ; 



And linking hand in hand, and singing as 

they go, 
The maids along the hill-side have ta'en 

their fearless way, 
Till they come to where the rowan trees in 

lovely beauty grow 
Beside the Fairy Hawthorn gray. 

The hawthorn stands between the ashes tall 

and slim, 

Like matron with her twin grand-daugh 
ters at her knee ; 
The rowan berries cluster o'er her low head 

gray and dim 
In ruddy kisses sweet to see. 

The merry maidens four have ranged them 

in a row, 
Between each lovely couple a stately 

rowan stem, 
And away in mazes wavy like skimming 

birds they go, 
Oh, never caroll'd bird like them ! 

But solemn is the silence of the silvery 

haze 

That drinks away their voices in echoless 
repose, 



FERGUSON DAVIS 



97 



And dreamily the evening has still'd the 

haunted braes, 
And dreamier the gloaming grows. 

And sinking one by one, like lark-notes from 

the sky 
When the falcon's shadow saileth across 

the open shaw, 
Are hush'd the maidens' voices, as cowering 

down they lie 
In the flutter of their sudden awe. 

For, from the air above and the grassy 

ground beneath, 
And from the mountain-ashes and the old 

white thorn between, 
A power of faint enchantment doth through 

their beings breathe, 
And they sink down together on the 
green. 

They sink together silent, and, stealing side 

by side, 
They fling their lovely arms o'er their 

drooping necks so fair, 
Then vainly strive again their naked arms 

to hide, 
For their shrinking necks again are bare. 

Thus clasp'd and prostrate all, with their 

heads together bow'd, 
Soft o'er their bosoms beating the only 

human sound 
They hear the silky footsteps of the silent 

fairy crowd, 
Like a river in the air, gliding round. 

lor scream can any raise, nor prayer can 
any say, 



But wild, wild, the terror of the speechleM 

three, 
For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently 

away, 
By whom they dare not look to see. 

They feel their tresses twine with her part 
ing locks of gold, 
And the curls elastic falling, as her hold 

withdraws ; 
They feel her sliding arms from their 

tranced arms unfold, 
But they dare not look to see the 
cause : 

For heavy on their senses the faint enchant 
ment lies 
Through all that night of anguish and 

perilous amaze ; 
And neither fear nor wonder can ope their 

quivering eyes, 

Or their limbs from the cold ground 
raise, 

Till out of night the earth has roll'd her 

dewy side, 
With every haunted mountain and 

streamy vale below ; 
When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow 

morning-tide, 
The maidens' trance dissolveth so. 

Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they 

may, 
And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious 

friends in vain : 
They pin'd away and died within the year 

and day, 
And ne'er was Anna Grace seen again. 



vOsbornr SDatoig 



THE SACK OF BALTIMORE * 

THE summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's 

hundred isles, 
The summer sun is gleaming still through 

Gabriel's rough defiles ; 
Old Innisherkin's crumbled fane looks like 

a moulting bird, 
And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean 

tide is heard : 



The hookers lie upon the beach ; the children 
cease their play ; 

The gossips leave the little inn ; the house 
holds kneel to pray ; 

And full of love, and peace, and. rest, iU 
daily labor o'er, 

Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of 
Baltimore. 

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come witk 
midnight there ; 



Hh hurt poem. 



9 8 



IRISH MINSTRELSY 



No sound, except that throbbing wave, in 

earth, or sea, or air ! 
The massive capes and ruin'd towers seem 

conscious of the calm ; 
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breath 
ing heavy balm. 
So still the night, these two long barques 

round Dunashad that glide 
Must trust their oars, methinks not few, 

against the ebbing tide. 
Oh, some sweet mission of true love must 

urge them to the shore ! 
They bring some lover to his bride who sighs 

in Baltimore. 

All, all asleep within each roof along that 

rocky street, 
And these must be the lover's friends, with 

gently gliding feet 
A stifled gasp, a dreamy noise ! " The roof 

is in a flame ! " 
From out their beds and to their doors rush 

maid and sire and dame, 
And meet upon the threshold stone the 

gleaming sabre's fall, 
And o'er each black and bearded face the 

white or crimson shawl. 
The yell of "Allah!" breaks above the 

prayer, and shriek, and roar : 
O blessed God ! the Algerine is lord of Bal 
timore ! 

Then flung the youth his naked hand against 

the shearing sword ; 
Then sprung the mother on the brand with 

which her son was gor'd ; 
Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his 

grand-babes clutching wild ; 
Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and 

nestled with the child : 
But see ! yon pirate strangled lies, and 

crush'd with splashing heel, 
While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps 

his Syrian steel : 
Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and 

misers yield their store, 
There 's one hearth well avenged in the sack 

of Baltimore. 

Midsummer morn in woodland nigh the 
birds begin to sing, 

They see not now the milking maids, de 
serted is the spring ; 

Midsummer day this gallant rides from dis 
tant Bandon's town, 



These hookers cross'd from stormy Skull, 

that skiff from Affadown ; 
They only found the smoking walls with 

neighbors' blood besprent, 
And on the strewed and trampled beach 

awhile they wildly went, 
Then dash'd to sea, and pass'd Cape Clear, 

and saw, five leagues before, 
The pirate-galley vanishing that ravaged 

Baltimore. 

Oh, some must tug the galley's oar, and 

some must tend the steed ; 
This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and 

that a Bey's jerreed. 
Oh, some are for the arsenals by beauteous 

Dardanelles ; 
And some are in the caravan to Mecca's 

sandy dells. 
The maid that Bandon gallant sought is 

chosen for the Dey : 
She 's safe she 's dead she stabb'd him 

in the midst of his Serai ! 
And when to die a death of fire that noble 

maid they bore, 
She only smiled, O'Driscoll's child ; she 

thought of Baltimore. 

'Tis two long years since sunk the town 

beneath that bloody band, 
And all around its trampled hearths a larger 

concourse stand, 
Where high upon a gallows-tree a yelling 

wretch is seen : 
'T is Hackett of Dungarvan he who steer'd 

the Algerine ! 
He fell amid a sullen shout with scarce a 

passing' prayer, 
For he had slain the kith and kin of many 

a hundred there. 
Some mutter'd of MacMurchadh, who 

brought the Norman o'er ; 
Some curs'd him with Iscariot, that day in 

Baltimore. 

THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE 

His kiss is sweet, his word is kind, 

His love is rich to me ; 
I could not in a palace find 

A truer heart than he. 
The eagle shelters not his nest 

From hurricane and hail 
More bravely than he guards my breast * 

The Boatman of Kinsale. 



THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS 



99 



The wind that round the Fastnet sweeps 

Is not a whit more pure, 
The goat that down Cnoc Sheehy leaps 

Has not a footnore sure. 
No firmer hand nor freer eye 

E'er faced an autumn gale, 
De Courcy's heart is not so high 

The Boatman of Kinsale. 

The brawling squires may heed him not, 

The dainty stranger sneer, 
But who will dare to hurt our cot 

When Myles O'Hea is here ? 
The scarlet soldiers pass along : 

They 'd like, but fear to rail : 
His blood is hot, his blow is strong 

The Boatman of Kinsale. 

His hooker 's in the Scilly van, 

When seines are in the foam, 
But money never made the man, 

Nor wealth a happy home. 
So, bless'd with love and liberty, 

While he can trim a sail, 
He '11 trust in God, and cling to me 

The Boatman of Kinsale. 

THE WELCOME 

)ME in the evening, or come in the morn 
ing ; 

[ Come when you 're look'd for, or come with 
out warning : 

Kisses and welcome you '11 find here before 
you, 

And the oftener you come here the more 
I '11 adore you ! 

Light is my heart since the day we were 
plighted ; 

.Red is my cheek that they told me was 
blighted ; 

! > The green of the trees looks far greener than 
ever, 

; And the linnets are singing, " True lovers 
don't sever ! " 

' I '11 pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you 
choose them, 



Or, after you 've kiss'd them, they '11 lie on 

my bosom ; 
I '11 fetch from the mountain its breeze to 

inspire you ; 
I '11 fetch from my fancy a tale that won't 

tire you. 
Oh ! your step 's like the rain to the summer- 

vex'd farmer, 
Or sabre and shield to a knight without 

armor ; 
I '11 sing you sweet songs till the stars rise 

above me, 
Then, wandering, I '11 wish you in silence 

to love me. 

We '11 look through the trees at the cliff 

and the eyrie ; 
We '11 tread round the rath on the track 

of the fairy ; 
We '11 look on the stars, and we '11 list to 

the river, 
Till you ask of your darling what gift you 

can give her : 

Oh ! she '11 whisper you " Love, as un 
changeably beaming, 
And trust, when in secret, most tunefully 

streaming ; 
Till the starlight of heaven above us shall 

quiver, 
As our souls flow in one down eternity's 

river." 

So come in the evening, or come in the morn 
ing ; 

Come when you 're looked for, or come with 
out warning : 

Kisses and welcome you '11 find here before 
you, 

And the oftener you come here the more 
I '11 adore you ! 

Light is my heart since the day we were 
plighted ; 

Red is my cheek that they told me was 
blighted ; 

The green of the trees looks far greener 
than ever, 

And the linnets are singing, " True lovers 
don't sever I " 



IOO 



IRISH MINSTRELSY 



THE IRISH RAPPAREES 

RIGH Shemus 1 he has gone to France, and 

left his crown behind ; 
111 luck be theirs, both day and night, put 

running in his mind ! 
Lord Lucan followed after with his 

Slashers brave and true, 
And now the doleful keen is raised 

" What will poor Ireland do ? 
What must poor Ireland do ? 
Our luck," they say, " has gone to France 

what can poor Ireland do ? " 

O, never fear for Ireland, for she has sol 
diers still, 

For Rory's boys are in the wood, and Re- 
my's on the hill ! 

And never had poor Ireland more loyal 
hearts than these 

May God be kind and good to them, the 

faithful Rapparees ! 
The fearless Rapparees ! 

The jewel were you, Rory, with your Irish 
Rapparees ! 

O, black's your heart, Clan Oliver, and 

colder than the clay ! 
O, high 's your head, Clan Sassenach, since 

Sarsfield 's gone away ! 
It 's little love you bear to us for sake of 

long ago ; 
But hold your hand, for Ireland still can 

strike a deadly blow 
Can strike a mortal blow : 
Och, duar-na-Crfosd ! 't is she that still 

could strike a deadly blow ! 



The Master's bawn, thq Master's seat, a 

surly bodagh fills ; 
The Master's son, an outlawed man, is 

riding on the hills. 
But God be prais'd that round him throng, 

as thick as summer bees, 
The swords that guarded Limerick wall 

his loyal Rapparees ! 
His loving Rapparees ! 
Who dare say no to Rory Oge, with all his 

Rapparees ? 

Black Billy Grimes of Latnamard, he rack'd 

us long and sore 
God rest the faithful hearts he broke ! 

we '11 never see them more ; 
But I '11 go bail he '11 break no more, while 

Truagh has gallows-trees ; 
For why ? he met, one lonesome night, 

the fearless Rapparees ! 
The angry Rapparees ! 
They never sin no more, my boys, who 

cross the Rapparees ! 

Now, Sassenach and Cromweller, take 

heed of what I say, 
Keep down your black and angry looks 

that scorn us night and day : 
For there 's a just and wrathful Judge that 

every action sees, 
And He '11 make strong, to right our wrong, 

the faithful Rapparees ! 
The fearless Rapparees ! 
The men that rode at Sarsfield's side, the 

roving Rapparees ! 



SE>eni Florence 



BLESS THE DEAR OLD VER 
DANT LAND 

BLESS the dear old verdant land ! 

Brother, wert thou born of it ? 
As thy shadow life doth stand 
Twining round its rosy band, 
Did an Irish mother's* hand 

Guide thee in the morn of it ? 



Did a father's first command 
Teach thee love or scorn of it ? 

Thou who tread'st its fertile breast, 

Dost thou feel a glow for it ? 
Thou of all its charms possest, 
Living on its first and best, 
Art thou but a thankless guest 
Or a traitor foe for it ? 



J King James II. 



I 



MACCARTHY DOWLING 



101 



If thou lovest, where 's the test ? 
Wilt thou strike a blow for it ? 

Has the past no goading sting 

That can make thee rouse for it ? 

Does thy land's reviving spring, 

Full of buds and blossoming, 

Fail to make thy cold heart cling, 
Breathing lover's vows for it ? 

With the circling ocean's ring 
Thou wert made a spouse for it. 

Hast thou kept as thou shouldst keep 

Thy affections warm for it, 
Letting no cold feeling creep 
Like an ice-breath o'er the deep, 
Freezing to a stony sleep 

Hopes the heart would form for it, 
Glories that like rainbows peep 

Through the darkening storm for it ? 

Son of this down-trodden land, 

Aid us in the fight for it. 
We seek to make it great and grand, 
Its shipless bays, its naked strand, 
By canvas-swelling breezes fanned : 

Oh, what a glorious sight for it, 
The past expiring like a brand 

In morning's rosy light for it ! 

Think, this dear old land is thine, 

And thou a traitor slave of it : 
Think how the Switzer leads his kine, 
When pale the evening star doth shine ; 



His song has home in every lin<>, 

Freedom in every stave of it ; 
Think how the German loves hi- Rhine 

And worships every wave of it ! 

Our own dear land is bright as theirs, 
But oh ! our hearts are cold for it ; 

Awake ! we are not slaves, but heirs. 

Our fatherland requires our cares, 

Our speech with men, with God our prayers; 
Spurn blood-stain'd Judas gold for it : 

Let us do all that honor dares 
Be earnest, faithful, bold for it I 

THE IRISH WOLF-HOUND 

FROM "THE FORAY OF CON O'OONXELL n 

As fly the shadows o'er the grass, 

He flies with step as light and sure, 
He hunts the wolf through Tostan past. 

And starts the deer by Lisanoure. 
The music of the Sabbath bells, 

O Con ! has not a sweeter sound 
Than when along the valley swells 

The cry of John Mac DonneU's bound. 

His stature tall, his body long, 

His back like night, his breast like snow, 
His fore-leg pillar-like and strong, 

His hind-leg like a bended bow ; 
Rough curling hair, head long and thin, 

His ear a leaf so small and round ; 
Not Bran, the favorite dog of Fin, 

Could rival John Mac Donnell's bound. 



25arrt)olometo SDotoling 



THE REVEL 
(EAST INDIA) 

WE meet 'neath the sounding rafter, 

And the walls around are bare ; 
As they shout back our peals of laughter 

It seems that the dead are there. 
Then stand to your glasses, steady ! 

We drink in our comrades' eyes : 
One cup to the dead already 

Hurrah for the next that dies I 

Not here are the goblets glowing, 
Not here is the vintage sweet ; 



'T is cold, as our hearts RTP growing, 
And dark as the doom we meet. 

But stand to your glasses, steady I 
And soon shall our pulses rise : 

A cup to the dead already 
Hurrah for the next that dies I 

There 's many a hand that 's shaking, 

And many a cheek that 's sunk ; 
But soon, though onr hearts are breaking, 

They '11 burn with the wine we *ve drunk 
Then stand to your glasses, steady I 

'T is here the revival lies : 
Quaff a cup to the dead already 

Hurrah for the next that dies 1 



102 



IRISH MINSTRELSY 



Time was when we laugh'd at others ; 

We thought we were wiser then ; 
Ha ! ha ! let them think of their mothers, 

Who hope to see them again. 
No ! stand to your glasses, steady ! 

The thoughtless is here the wise : 
One cup to the dead already 

Hurrah for the next that dies ! 

Not a sigh for the lot that darkles, 

Not a tear for the friends that sink ; 
We '11 fall, 'midst the wine-cup's sparkles, 

As mute as the wine we drink. 
Come stand to your glasses, steady ! 

'T is this that the respite buys : 
A cup to the dead already 

Hurrah for the next that dies ! 

There 's a mist on the glass congealing, 
'T is the hurricane's sultry breath ; 

And thus does the warmth of feeling 
Turn ice in the grasp of Death. 



But stand to your glasses, steady 1 
For a moment the vapor flies : 

Quaff a cup to the dead already 
Hurrah for the next that dies ! 

Who dreads to the dust returning ? 

Who shrinks from the sable shore, 
Where the high and haughty yearning 

Of the soul can sting no more ? 
No, stand to your glasses, steady ! 

The world is a world of lies : 
A cup to the dead already 

And hurrah for the next that dies ! 

Cut off from the land that bore us, 

Betray'd by the land we find, 
When the brightest have gone before us, 

And the dullest are most behind 
Stand, stand to your glasses, steady ! 

'T is all we have left to prize : 
One cup to the dead already 

Hurrah for the next that dies ! 



THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD 

WHO fears to speak of Ninety-Eight ? 

Who blushes at the name ? 
When cowards mock the patriot's fate, 

Who hangs his head for shame ? 
He 's all a knave or half a slave 

Who slights his country thus ; 
But a true man, like you, man, 

Will fill your glass with us. 

We drink the memory of the brave, 

The faithful and the few : 
Some lie far off beyond the wave, 

Some sleep in Ireland, too ; 
All, all are gone but still lives on 

The fame of those who died : 
All true men, like you, men, 

Remember them with pride. 

Some on the shores of distant lands 

Their weary hearts have laid, 
And by the stranger's heedless hands 

Their lonely graves were made ; 
But, though their clay be far away 

Beyond the Atlantic foam, 
In true men, like you, men, / 

Their spirit 's still at home. 



The dust of some is Irish earth ; 

Among their own they rest ; 
And the same land that gave them birth 

Has caught them to her breast ; 
And we will pray that from their clay 

Full many a race may start 
Of true men, like you, men, 

To act as brave a part. 

They rose in dark and evil days 

To right their native land ; 
They kindled here a living blaze 

That nothing shall withstand. 
Alas, that Might can vanquish Right ! 

They fell, and pass'd away ; 
But true men, like you, men, 

Are plenty here to-day. 

Then here 's their memory may it bs 

For us a guiding light, 
To cheer our strife for liberty, 

And teach us to unite ! 
Through good and ill, be Ireland's still, 

Though sad as theirs your fate ; 
And true men be you, men, 

Like those of Ninety-Eight. 



IRISH MINSTRELSY 



THE CELTIC CROSS 

THROUGH storm and fire and gloom, I see 
it stand, 

Firm, broad, and tall, 

The Celtic Cross that marks our Father 
land, 

Amid them all ! 
Druids and Danes and Saxons vainly rage 

Around its base ; 
It standeth shock on shock, and age on age, 

Star of our scatter'd race. 

O Holy Cross ! dear symbol of the dread 

Death of our Lord, 

Around thee long have slept our martyr 
dead 

Sward over sward. 
An hundred bishops I myself can count 

Among the slain : 

Chiefs, captains, rank and file, a shining 
mount 

Of God's ripe grain. 

The monarch's mace, the Puritan's clay 
more, 

Smote thee not down ; 
On headland steep, on mountain summit 
hoar, 

In mart and town, 
In Glendalough, in Ara, in Tyrone, 

We find thee still, 
Thy open arms still stretching to thine own, 

O'er town aud lough and hill. 

And would they tear thee out of Irish soil, 

The guilty fools ! 
How time must mock their antiquated toil 

And broken tools ! 

Cranmer and Cromwell from thy grasp re- 
tir'd, 

Baffled and thrown ; 

William and Anne to sap thy site con- 
spir'd, 

The rest is known. 

Holy Saint Patrick, father of our faith, 

Belov'd of God 1 

Shield thy dear Church from the impend 
ing scaith, 

Or, if the rod 



Must scourge it yet again, inspire and rai 

To emprise high 
Men like the heroic race of other days, 

Who joyed to die. 

Fear ! wherefore should the Celtic people 
fear 

Their Church's fate ? 
The day is not the day was never near 

Could desolate 
The Destin'd Island, all whose seedy clay 

Is holy ground : 

Its cross shall stand till that predestined 
day 

When Erin's self is drown'd. 



THE IRISH WIFE 

I WOULD not give my Irish wife 

For all the dames of the Saxon land ; 
I would not give my Irish wife 

For the Queen of France's hand ; 
For she to me is dearer 

Than castles strong, or lands, or life : 
An outlaw so I 'in near her 

To love till death my Irish wife. 

what would be this home of mine, 
A ruin'd, hermit-haunted place, 

But for the light that nightly shines 
Upon its walls from Kathleen's face 1 

What comfort in a mine of gold, 
What pleasure in a royal lifi'. 

If the heart within lay dead and cold, 
If I could not wed my Irish wife ? 

1 knew the law forbade the banns ; 

I knew my king abhorr'd her race ; 
Who never bent before their clans 

Must bow before their ladies' grace. 
Take all my forfeited domain, 

I cannot wage with kinsmen strife : 
Take knightly gear and nouie nairn-, 

And I will keep my Irish wife. 

My Irish wife has clear blue eyes, 

My heaven by day, my stars by night ; 

And twin-like truth and fondness lie 
Within her swelling bosom white 

My Irish wife has golden hair, 

Apollo's harp had once such strirgs, 



104 



IRISH MINSTRELSY 



Apollo's self might pause to bear 
Her bird-like carol when she sings. 

I would not give my Irish wife 

For all the dames of the Saxon land ; 
I would not give my Irish wife 

For the Queen of France's hand ; 
For she to me is dearer 

Than castles strong, or lands, or life : 
In death I would be near her, 

And rise beside my Irish wife. 

THE EXILE'S DEVOTION 

IF I forswear the art divine 

That glorifies the dead, 
What comfort then can I call mine, 

What solace seek instead ? 
For from my birth our country's fame 

Was life to me, and love ; 
And for each loyal Irish name 

Some garland still I wove. 

I 'd rather be the bird that sings 

Above the martyr's grave, 
Than fold in fortune's cage my wings 

And feel my soul a slave ; 
I 'd rather turn one simple verse 

True to the Gaelic ear 



Than sapphic odes I might rehearse 
With senates listening near. 

Oh, native land ! dost ever mark, 

When the world's din is drown'd 
Betwixt the daylight and the dark, 

A wandering solemn sound 
That on the western wind is borne 

Across thy dewy breast ? 
It is the voice of those who mourn 

For thee, in the far West. 

For them and theirs I oft essay 

Thy ancient art of song, 
And often sadly turn away, 

Deeming my rashness wrong ; 
For well I ween, a loving will 

Is all the art I own : 
Ah me ! could love suffice for skill, 

What triumphs I had known ! 

My native land ! my native land I 

Live in my memory still ! 
. Break on my brain, ye surges grand ! 

Stand up, mist-cover'd hill ! 
Still on the mirror of the mind 

The scenes I love, I see : 
Would I could fly on the western wind, 

My native land, to thee ! 



3[ane francegta 



(" SPERANZA ") 



THE VOICE OF THE POOR 

WAS sorrow ever like unto our sorrow ? 

O God above ! 

Will our night never change into a mor 
row 

Of joy and love ? 

A deadly gloom is on us waking sleep 
ing 

Like the darkness at noon-tide 
That fell upon the pallid Mother, weep 
ing 
By the Crucified. 

Before us die our brothers of starvation : 
Around are cries cf famine and de 
spair : 



Where is hope for us, or comfort, or salva 
tion ? 

Where, oh, where ? 
If the angels ever hearken, downward bend- 

TK lng ' 

ihey are weeping, we are sure, 

At the litanies of human groans ascend= 

ing 
From the crush'd hearts of the poor. 

When the human rests in love upon the 

human, 

All grief is light ; 
But who bends one kind glance to illumine 

Our life-long night ? 

The air around is ringing with their laugh 
ter ; 
God has only made the rich to smile : 






LADY WILDE MARY KELLY 



But we, in our rags and want aiid woe, we 

follow after, 
Weeping the while. 

And the laughter seems but utter'd to de 
ride us : 

When, oh ! when, 
Will full the frozen barriers that divide 

us 

From other men ? 
Will ignorance for ever thus enslave 

us ! 

Will misery for ever lay us low ? 
All are eager with their insults, but to 

save us 
None, none, we know. 



We never knew a childhood's mirth and 

gladness, 
Nor the proud heart of youth free and 

brave ; 
Oh ! a death-like dream of wretchedness 

and sadness 

Is our life's weary journey to the 
grave. 

f)ay by day we lower sink and lower, 
Till the god-like soul within 



TIPPERARY 

;E you ever in sweet Tipperary, where 

the fields are so sunny and green, 
And the heath-brown Slieve-blooin and the 
Galtees look down with so proud a 
mien? 
is there you would see more beauty than 

is on all Irish ground 
God bless you, my sweet Tipperary ! for 
where could your match be found ? 

They say that your hand is fearful, that 

darkness is in your eye ; 
But I '11 not let them dare to talk so black 

and bitter a lie. 
0, no ! macushla storin, bright, bright, and 

warm are you, 
With hearts as bold as the men of old, to 

yourself and your country true. 

And when there is gloom upon you, bid 
them think who brought it there 



Falls crush'd, beneath the fearful demon 

power 
Of poverty and sin. 

So we toil on on, with fever burning 

In heart and brain ; 
So we toil on on, through bitter scorning, 

Want, woe and pain : 

We dare not raise our eyes to the blue 
heaven 

Or the toil must cease ; 
We dare not breathe the fresh air God ha* 
given. 

One hour in peace. 

We must toil, though the light of life is 

burning, 
Oh, how dim ! 

We must toil on our sick bed, feebly turn 
ing 

Our eyes to Him 
Who alone can hear the pale lip faintly 

saying 

With scarce mov'd breath, 
And the paler hands, uplifted, and the pray 
ing, 
" Lord, grant us Death ! " 



Sure a frown or a word of hatred was not 
made for your face so fair ; 

You *ve a hand for the grasp of friendship 
another to make them quake, 

And they 're welcome to whichsoever it 
pleases them to take. 

Shall our homes, like the huts of Connatight, 

be crumbled before our eyes ? 
Shall we fly, like a flock of wild geese, from 

all that we love and prize ? 
No ! by those that were here before us, no 

churl shall our tyrant be, 
Our land it is theirs by plunder but, by 

Brigid, ourselves are free ! 

No ! we do not forget the greatness did 
once to sweet Eire belong ; 

No treason or craven spirit was ever our 
race among ; 

And no frown or word of hatred we giye 
but to pay them back ; 

In evil we only follow our enemies' dark 
some track. 



io6 



"THE OATEN FLUTE" 



O, come for awhile among us and give us 
the friendly hand ! 

And you '11 see that old Tipperary is a lov 
ing and gladsome land ; 



From Upper to Lower Ormonde, bright 
welcomes and smiles will spring : 

On the plains of Tipperary the stranger is 
like a king. 



SDotoning 



WERE I BUT HIS OWN WIFE 

WERE I but his own wife, to guard and to 

guide him, 
'T is little of sorrow should fall on nay 

dear ; 

I 'd chant my low love-verses, stealing be 
side him, 
So faint and so tender his heart would 

but hear ; 
I 'd pull the wild blossoms from valley and 

highland, 
And there at his feet I would lay them 

all down ; 
I 'd sing him the songs of our poor stricken 

island, 

Till his heart was on fire with a love like 
my own. 

There 's a rose by his dwelling, I 'd tend 

the lone treasure, 
That he might have flowers when the 

summer would come ; 
There 's a harp in his hall, I would wake 

its sweet measure, 

For he must have music to brighten his 
home. 



Were I but his own wife, to guide and to 

guard him, 
'T is little of sorrow should fall on my 

dear ; 
For every kind glance my whole life would 

award him, 

In sickness I 'd soothe and in sadness I 'd 
cheer. 

My heart is a fount welling upward for 
ever ! 
When I think of my true-love, by night 

or by day, 

That heart' keeps its faith like a fast-flow 
ing river 
Which gushes forever and sings on its 

way. 
I have thoughts full of peace for his soul to 

repose in, 
Were I but his own wife, to win and to 

woo ; 
O sweet, if the night of misfortune were 

closing, 

To rise like the morning star, darling, 
for you 1 



"THE OATEN FLUTE" 



IteiHiam 

(DORSET) 



WOONE SMILE MWORE 

! MEAKY, when the zun went down, 
Woone night in spring, w' viry rim, 

Behind the nap wi' woody crown, 
An' left your smilen feace so dim } 



Your little sister there, inside, 
Wi' bellows on her little knee, 

Did blow the vire, a-glearen wide 

Drough window-peanes, that I could 
zee, 

As you did stan' wi' me, avore 

The house, a-pearten, woone smile mwore, 



WILLIAM BARNES 



107 



The chatt'ren birds, a-riscn high, 

An' zinkcn low, did swiftly vlee 
Vroin shrinkcn moss, a-groweu dry, 

Upon the leanen apple tree. 
An' there the dog, a-whippen wide 

His heiiiry tai'l, an' comen near, 
Did fondly lay agean your zide 

His coal-black nose an' russet ear : 
To win what I 'd a-won avore, 
Vroiu your gay feace, his woone smile 
mwore. 

An' while your mother bustled sprack, 

A-getten supper out in hall, 
An' cast her sheade, a-whiv'ren black 

Avore the vire, upon the wall ; 
Your brother come, wi' easy peace, 

In drough the slammen geate, along 
The path, wi' healthy-bloomen feace, 

A-whis'len shrill his last new zong : 
An' when he come avore the door, 
He met vrom you his woone smile mwore. 

Now you that wer the daughter there, 
Be mother on a husband's vloor, 

An' mid ye meet wi' less o' ceare 

Than what your hearty mother bore ; 

An' if abroad I have to rue 

The bitter tongue, or wrongvul deed, 
[id I come hwome to sheare wi' you 
What 's needvul free o' pinchen need : 

An' vind that you ha' still in store 



My evenen 
mwore. 



meal, an' woone smile 



BLACKMWORE MAIDENS 

THE primrwose in the sheade do blow, 
The cowslip in the zun, 
The thyme upon the down do grow, 
The clote where streams do run ; 
An' where do pretty maidens grow 
An' blow, but where the tow'r 
Do rise among the bricken tuns, 
In Blackmwore by the Stour. 

If you could zee their comely gait, 
An' pretty feaces' smiles, 
A-tnppen on so light o' walght, 
An' steppen off the stiles ; 
A-gwain to church, as bells do swing 
An* ring 'ithin the tow'r, 
You 'd own the pretty maidens' pleace 
Is Blackmwore by the Stour. 



If you vrom Wimborne took your road, 

To Stower or Paladore, 

An' all the farmers' houaen show'd 

Their daughters at the door ; 

You 'd cry to bachelors at hwome 

"Here, come : 'ithin an hour 

You '11 vind ten maidens to your mind, 

In Blackmwore by the Stour." 

An* if you look'd 'ithin their door, 

To zee em in their pleace, 

A-doen housework up avore 

Their smilen mother s feace ; 

You 'd cry " Why, if a man would wire 

An' thrive, 'ithout a dow'r, 

Then let en look en out a wife 

In Blackmwore by the Stour." 

As I upon my road did pass 
A school-house back in May, 
There out upon the beaten grass 
Wer maidens at their play ; 
An' as the pretty souls did tweil 
An' smile, I cried, The flow'r 
O' beauty, then, is still in bud 
In Blackmwore by the Stour." 

THE HEARE 

(1) THERE be the greyhounds ! Io*k ! an 1 

there 's the heare ! 

(2) What houn's, the squier's, Thomas? 

where, then, where ? 

(1) Why, out in Ash Hill, near the barn, 

behind 

Thik tree. (3) The pollard? (1) Pol- 
lard! no! b 'ye blind? 

(2) There, I do zee em over-right thik 

cow. 

(3) The red woone ? (1) No, a mile be- 

yand her now. 

(3) Oh ! there 's the heare, a-mettken for 
the drong. 

(2) My goodness ! How the dogs do 

zweep along, 
A-poken out their pweinted noses' tips. 

(3) He can't allow hizzelf much time vor 

slips ! 

(1) They'll hab en, after all, 111 bet a 

crown. 

(2) Done vor a crown. They woon't ! 

He 's gwain to gronn'. 

(3) He is ! (1) He idden I (3) Ah I 'tU 

well his tooes 
Ha' got noo corns, inside o' hobnail MM* 



io8 



"THE OATEN FLUTE" 



(1) He 's geame a-runnen too. Why, he 

do mwore 
Than earn his life. (3) His life wer his 

avore. 
(1) There, now the dogs wull turn en. 

(2) No ! He 's right. 
(1) He idden! (2) Ees he is! (3) 

He 's out o' zight. 

(1) Aye, aye. His mettle wull be well a- 

tried 

Agwai'n down Verny Hill, o' t' other zide. 
They '11 have en there. (3) O no ! a vew 

good hops 
Wull teake en on to Knapton Lower Copse. 

(2) An' that 's a meesh that he 've a-took 

avore. 

(3) Ees, that's his hwome. (1) He'll 

never reach his door. 
(2) He wull. (1) Hewoon't. (3) Now, 

hark, d 'ye hear em now ? 
(2) O ! here 's a bwoy a-come athirt the 

brow 
O' Knapton Hill. We '11 ax en. (1) Here, 

my bwoy ! 
Canst tell us where 's the heare? (4) 

He 's got awoy. 

(2) Ees, got awoy, in coo'se, I never zeed 
A heare a-scoten on wi' half his speed. 

(1) Why, there, the dogs be wold, an' half 

a-done. 
They can 't catch anything wi' lags to run. 

(2) Vrom vu'st to last they had but little 

chance 
0* catchen o' 'n. (3) They had a perty 

dance. 
(1) No, catch en, no ! I little thought 

they would ; 
He know'd his road too well to Knapton 

Wood. 

(3) No ! no ! I wish the squier would let 

me feare 

On rabbits till his hounds do catch thik 
heare. 

THE CASTLE RUINS 

A HAPPY day at Whitsuntide, 
As soon 's the zun begun to vail, 



We all stroll'd up the steep hill-zide 

To Meldon, gret an' small ; 
Out where the Castle wall stood high 
A-mwoldren to the zunny sky. 

An' there wi' Jenny took a stroll 
Her youngest sister, Poll, so gay, 

Bezide John Hind, ah ! merry soul, 
An' mid her wedlock fay ; 

An' at our zides did play an' run 

My little mai'd an' smaller son. 

Above the beaten mwold upsprung 
The driven doust, a-spreaden light, 

An' on the new-leav'd thorn, a-hung, 
Wer wool a-quiv'ren white ; 

An' corn, a-sheenen bright, did bow, 

On slopen Meldon's zunny brow. 

There, down the roofless wall did glow 
The zun upon the grassy vloor, 

An' weakly-wandren winds did blow, 
Unhinder'd by a door ; 

An' smokeless now avore the zun 

Did stan' the ivy-girded tun. 

My bwoy did watch the daws' bright 

wings 

A-flappen vrom their ivy bow'rs ; 
My wife did watch my maid's light 

springs, 

Out here an' there vor flow'rs ; 
And John did zee noo tow'rs, the pleace 
Vor him had only Polly's feace. 

An' there, of all that pried about 
The walls, I overlook'd em best, 

An' what o' that ? Why, I meade out 
Noo mwore than all the rest : 

That there wer woonce the nest of zome 

That wer a-gone avore we come. 

When woonce above the tun the smoke 
Did wreathy blue among the trees. 

An' down below, the liven vo'k 
Did tweil as brisk as bees ; 

Or zit wi r weary knees, the while 

The sky wer lightless to their tweil. 



"THE OATEN FLUTE 



109 



(LANCASHIRE) 



:E DULE'S I' THIS BONNET 
O' MINE 

THK dale 's i' this bonnet o' mine ; 

My ribhins '11 never be reet ; 
Here, Mally, aw 'm like to be fine, 

For Jamie '11 be comin' to-neet ; 
He met me i' th' lone t' other day, 

Aw 're gooin' for wayter to th' well, 
An' he begg'd that aw 'd wed him i' 
May; 

Bi th' mass, iv he '11 let me, aw will ! 

he took my two houds into his, 
Good Lord, heaw they trembled between ; 
in' aw dnrstn't look up in his face, 
Becose on him seein' my e'en ; 
My cheek went as red as a rose ; 

There 's never a mortal can tell 
Hcnw happy aw felt ; for, thea knows, 
One could n't ha' ax'd him theirseF. 

But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung, 

To let it eawt would n't be reet, 
For aw thought to seem forrud wur wrung, 

So aw towd him aw 'd tell him to-neet ; 
But Mally, thae knows very weel, 

Though it is n' t a thing one should own, 
'Iv aw 'd th' pikein' o'th' world to mysel', 

Aw 'd oather ha* Jamie or noan. 

Neaw, Mally, aw 've towd tho my mind ; 

What would to do iv 't wur thee ? 
" Aw 'd tak him just while he 're incliu'd, 

An' a farrantly bargain he 'd be ; 
For Jamie 's as gradely a lad 
. As ever stepp'd eawt into th' sun ; 
^Go, jump at thy chance, an' get wed, 

An' may th' best o' th' job when it 's 
done ! " 

Eh, dear, but it 's time to be gwon, 

Aw should n't like Jamie to wait ; 
Aw connut for shame be too soon, 

An' aw would n't for th' world be too 

late ; 
Aw 'tn o' ov a tremble to th' heel, 

Dost think 'at my bonnet '11 do ? 
u Be off, lass, thae looks very weel ; 

He wants noan o' th' bonnet, thae foo 1 " 



TH' SWEETHEART GATE 

OH, there's mony a gate eawt ov 
teawn-end, 

But nobbut one for me ; 
It winds by a rindlin' wayter side, 

An' o'er a posied lea, 
It wanders into a shady dell ; 

An' when aw 've done for th' day, 
Aw never can sattle this heart o' mine, 

Beawt walkiu' deawn tliat way. 



It 's noather garden, nor posied lea, 

Nor wayter rindliu' clear ; 
But deawn i' th vale there 's a rosy nook, 

An' my true love lives theer. 
It 's olez summer where th' heart 's content, 

Tho' wintry winds may blow ; 
An' there 's never a gate 'at 's so kind to th* 
fuut, 

As th' gate one likes to go. 

When aw set off o' sweetheartin,' aw Ve 

A theawsan* things to say ; 
But h' very first glent o' yon chimbley-top 

It drives 'em o' away ; 
An' when aw meet wi' my bonny lass, 

It sets my heart a-jee ; 
Oh, there 's suminut i' th' leet o' yon two 
blue e'en 

That plays the dule wi' me ! 

When th' layrock 's finished his wark aboon, 

An' laid his music by, 
He flutters deawn to his mate, an' stops 

Till dayleet stirs i' th' sky. 
Though Matty sends me away at dark, 

Aw know that hoo 's reet full well ; 
An' it 's heaw aw love a true-hearted lass, 

No mortal tung can tell ! 

Aw wish that Candlemas day were past, 

When wakin' time comes on ; 
An* aw wish that Kesmass time were here, 

An' Matty an' me were one. 
Aw wish this wanderin' wark were o'er 

This maunderin' to an' fro ; 
That aw could go whoam to my own true 
love, 

An' stop at neet an' o'. 



no 



THE OATEN FLUTE" 



OWD FINDER 

OWD Finder were a rackless foo, 

An' spent his days i' spreein' ; 
At th' end ov every drinkin'-do, 

He 're sure to crack o' deein' ; 
" Go, sell my rags, an' sell my shoon ; 

Aw 's never live to trail 'em ; 
My ballis-pipes are eawt o' tune, 

An' th' wynt begins to fail 'em ! 

" Eawr Matty 's very fresh an' yung ; 

'T would ony mon bewilder ; 
Hoo '11 wed again afore it 's lung, 

For th' lass is fond o' childer ; 
My bit o' brass '11 fly, yo 'n see, 

When th' coffin-lid has screen'd me ; 
It gwos again my pluck to dee, 

An' lev her wick beheend me. 

" Come, Matty, come, an' cool my yed, 
Aw 'm finish'd, to my thinkin' ; " 

Hoo happ'd him nicely up, an' said, 
" Thae 's brought it on wi' drinkin' ! ' 



Nay, nay, 
done : 



said he, "my fuddle 's 



We 're partin' t' one fro' t' other ; 
So, promise me that when a 'm gwon, 
Thea '11 never wed another ! " 

"Th' owd tale," said hoo, an' laft 
stoo, 

" It 's rayley past believin' ; 
Thee think o' th' world thea 'rt goin' to, 

An' leave this world to th' livin' ; 
What use to me can deead folk be ? 

Thae 's kilt thisel' wi spreein' ; 
An' iv that 's o' thae wants wi' me, 

Get forrud wi' thi deein' ! " 

He scrat his yed, he rubb'd his e'e, 

An' then he donn'd his breeches ; 
" Eawr Matty gets as fause," said he, 

" As one o' Pendle witches ; 
Iv ever aw 'm to muster wit, 

It mun be now or never ; 
Aw think aw '11 try to live a bit ; 

It would n't do to lev her ! " 



her 



(LANCASHIRE) 



WELCOME, BONNY BRID ! 

THA 'rt welcome, little bonny brid, 
But should n't ha' come just when tha 
did; 

Toimes are bad. 

We 're short o' pobbies for eawr Joe, 
But that, of course, tha did n't know, 

Did ta, lad ? 

Aw've often yeard mi feyther tell, 
? At when aw coom i' th' world misel 

Trade wur slack ; 

An' neaw it 's hard wark pooin' throo 
But aw munno fear thee ; iv aw do 

Tha '11 go back. 

Cheer up ! these toimes 'ull awter soon ; 
Aw 'in beawn to beigh another spoon 

One for thee ; 

An' as tha 's sich a pratty face, 
Aw '11 let thee have eawr Charley's place 

On mi knee. 



God bless thee, love, aw 'm fain tha 'rt come, 
Just try an' mak thisel awhoam : 

What ar 't co'd ? 
Tha 'rt loike thi mother to a tee, 
But tha 's thi feyther's nose, aw see, 

Well, aw'mblow'd! 

Come, come, tha need n't look so shy, 
Aw am no' blackin' thee, not I ; 

Settle deawn, 

An' tak this haup'ney for thisel', 
There 's lots o' sugar-sticks to sell 

Deawu i' th' teawn. 

Aw know when furst aw coom to th' leet 
Aw 're fond o' owt 'at tasted sweet ; 

Tha '11 be th' same. 
But come, tha 's never towd thi dad 
What he 's to co thi yet, mi lad 

What 's thi name ? 

Hush ! hush ! tha munno cry this way, 
But get this sope o' cinder tay 
While it 's warm j 






LAYCOCK ELLIOTT 



in 



Mi mother us'd to give it me, 
When aw wur sich a lad as thee, 
In her arm. 

Hush a babby, hush a bee 
Oh, what a temper ! dear a-me, 

Heaw tha skroikes ! 
Here 's a bit o' sugar, sithee ; 
Howd thi noise, an' then aw '11 gie thee 

Owt tha loikes. 

We 'n nobbut getten coarsish fare, 
But eawt o' this tha 'st ha' thi share, 

Never fear. 

Aw hope tha '11 never want a meel, 
But allus fill thi bally weel 

While tha 'rt here. 



Thi feyther 's noan bin wed so long, 
An' yet tha sees he 's middlin' throng 

Wi' yo' o : 

Besides thi little brother, Ted, 
We '11 one up-steers, asleep i' bed 

Wi' eawr Joe. 

But though we 'n childer two or three, 
We '11 mak' a bit o' reawm for thee 

Bless thee, lad ! 
Tha 'rt th' prattiest brid we ban i* 

nest ; 
Come, hutch up closer to mi breast 

Aw "in thi dad. 



ttf 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 

(HUMANITY FREE THOUGHT POLITICAL, SOCIAL, AND ARTISTIC, REFORM) 



ELEGY ON WILLIAM COBBETT 

O BEAR him where the rain can fall, 
And where the winds can blow ; 

And let the sun weep o'er his pall 
As to the grave ye go ! 

id in some little lone churchyard, 
Beside the growing corn, 
Lay gentle Nature's stern prose bard, 
Her mightiest peasant-born. 

Tea ! let the wild-flower wed his grave, 
That bees may murmur near, 

n o'er his last home bend the brave, 
And say "A man lies here ! " 

Tor Britons honor Cobbett's name, 

Though rashly oft he spoke ; 
ind none can scorn, and few will blame, 

The low-laid heart of oak. 

;e, o'er his prostrate branches, see ! 
E'en factious hate consents 
To reverence, in the fallen tree, 
His British lineaments. 



Elliott 

Though gnarl'd the storm-toss'd boughs 
that brav'd 

The thunder's gather'd scowl, 
Not always through his darkness rav'd 

The storm-winds of the soul. 

O, no ! in hours of golden calm 

Morn met his forehead bold ; 
And breezy evening sang her psalm 

Beneath his dew-dropp'd gold. 

The wren its crest of fibred fire 
With his rich bronze compar'd, 

While many a youngling's songful sire 
His acorn'd twiglets shar'd. 

The lark, above, sweet tribute paid, 
Where clouds with light were riven ; 

And true love sought his bluebell'd shade, 
" To bless the hour of heaven." 

E'en when his stormy voice was loud, 
And guilt quak'd at the sound, 

Beneath the frown that shook the proud 
The poor a shelter found. 



112 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 



Dead oak ! thou livest. Thy smitten hands, 

The thunder of thy brow, 
Speak with strange tongues in many lands, 

And tyrants hear thee, now ! 

Beneath the shadow of thy name, 

Inspir'd by thy renown, 
Shall future patriots rise to fame, 

And many a sun go down. 

A POET'S EPITAPH 

STOP, mortal ! Here thy brother lies 

The poet of the poor. 
His books were rivers, woods, and skies, 

The meadow and the moor ; 
His teachers were the torn heart's wail, 

The tyrant and the slave, 
The street, the factory, the jail, 

The palace and the grave. 
Sin met thy brother everywhere ! 

And is thy brother blam'd ? 
From passion, danger, doubt, and care, 

He no exemption claim'd. 
The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm, 

He fear'd to scorn or hate ; 
But, honoring in a peasant's form 

The equal of the great, 
He bless'd the steward, whose wealth makes 

The poor man's little, more ; 
Yet loath'd the haughty wretch that takes 

From plunder 'd labor's store. 



A hand to do, a head to plan, 

A heart to feel and dare 

Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man 
Who drew them as they are. 

THE BUILDERS 

SPRING, summer, autumn, winter, 

Come duly, as of old ; 
Winds blow, suns set, and morning sait 

" Ye hills, put on your gold." 

The song of Homer liveth, 

Dead Solon is not dead ; 
Thy splendid name, Pythagoras, 

O'er realms of suns is spread. 

But Babylon and Memphis 

Are letters traced in dust : 
Read them, earth's tyrants ! ponder well 

The might in which ye trust ! 

They rose, while all the depths of guilt 
Their vain creators sounded ; 

They fell, because on fraud and force 
Their corner-stones were founded. 

Truth, mercy, knowledge, justice, 
Are powers that ever stand ; 

They build their temples in the soul, 
And work with God's right hand. 



THE BARONS BOLD 

THE Barons bold on Runnymede 

By union won their charter ; 
True men were they, prepar'd to bleed, 

But not their rights to barter : 
And they swore that England's laws 

Were above a tyrant's word ; 
And they prov'd that freedom's cause 
Was above a tyrant's sword : 
Then honor we 
The memory 

Of those Barons brave united ; 
And like their band, 
Join hand to hand : 
Our wrongs shall soon be righted. 



The Commons brave, in Charles's time, 

By union made the Crown fall, 
And show'd the world how royal crime 

Should lead to royal downfall : 
And they swore that rights and laws 

Were above a monarch's word ; 
And they raised the nation's cause 
Above the monarch's sword : 
Then honor we 
The memory 

Of those Commons brave, united ; 
And like their band, 
Join hand to hand : 
Our wrongs shall soon be righted. 

The People firm, from Court and Peers, 
By union won Reform, sirs, 






FOX HOOD 



And, union safe, the nation steers 

Through sunshine and through storm, 

sirs : 
And we swear that equal laws 

Shall prevail o'er lordlings' words, 
Ami can prove that freedom's cause 
Is too strong for hireling swords : 
Then honor we 
The victory 

Of the people brave, united ; 
Let all our bands 
Join hearts and hands : 
Our wrongs shall all be righted. 

LIFE IS LOVE 

ITHE fair varieties of earth, 

The heavens serene and blue above, 
The rippling smile of mighty seas 

What is the charm of all, but love ? 



By love they minister to thought, 

Love makes them breathe the poet's 
song ; 

When their Creator best is prais'd, 
'T is love inspires the adoring throng. 

Knowledge, and power, and will supreme, 

Are but celestial tyranny, 
Till they are consecrate by love, 

The essence of divinity. 

For love is strength, and faith, and hope ; 

It crowns with bliss our mortal state ; 
And, glancing far beyond the grave, 

Foresees a life of endless date. 

That life is love ; and all of life 

Time or eternity can prove ; 
Both men and angels, worms and gods, 

Exist in universal love. 



Cfjomag l)oob 



MTHE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM 

TWAS in the prime of summer time, 

An evening calm and cool, 
And four-and-twenty happy boys 
f Came bounding out of school : 
There wore some that ran and some that 

leap'd, 
I Like troutlets in a pool. 

Away they sped with gamesome minds, 

I And souls untouch'd by sin ; 

To a level mead they came, and there 

They drave the wickets in : 
Pleasantly shone the setting sun 
[ Over the town of Lynn. 

Like sportive deer they cours'd about, 
f And shouted as they ran, 
Turning to mirth all things of earth, 
[ As only boyhood can ; 
But the Usher sat remote from all, 
! A melancholy man ! 

hat was off, his vest apart, 
To catch heaven's blessed breeze ; 
>r a burning thought was in his brow, 
And his bosom ill at rasi : 
he lean'd his head on his hands, and read 
The book between his knees. 



Leaf after leaf, he turn'd it o'er, 

Nor ever glanced aside, 
For the peace of his soul he read that 
book 

In the golden eventide : 
Much study had made him very lean, 

And pale, and leaden-eyed. 

At last he shut the ponderous tome, 
With a fast and fervent grasp 

He strain'd the dusky coven eJQM 
Ami ftx'd the brazen hasp : 

" Oh, God ! could I so close my mind, 
And clasp it with a clasp ! " 

Then leaping on his feet upright, 
Some moody turns he took, 

Now up the mead, then down the mead, 
And past a shady nook, 

And, lo ! he saw a little boy 
That por'd upon a book. 

My gentle lad, what is 't you read 

Romance or fairy fable ? 
Or is it some historic page, 

Of kings and crowns unstable ? 
The young boy gave an upward glance, 

"It is 'The Death of Abel."' 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 



The Usher took six hasty strides, 

As smit with sudden pain, 
Six hasty strides beyond the place, 

Then slowly back again ; 
And down he sat beside the lad, 

And talk'd with him of Cain ; 

And, long since then, of bloody men, 

Whose deeds tradition saves ; 
Of lonely folk cut off unseen, 

And hid in sudden graves ; 
Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn, 

And murders done in caves ; 

And how the sprites of injur'd men 

Shriek upward from the sod ; 
Aye, how the ghostly hand will point 

To show the burial clod ; 
And unknown facts of guilty acts 

Are seen in dreams from God ! 

He told how murderers walk the earth 

Beneath the curse of Cain, 
With crimson clouds before their eyes, 

And flames about their brain : 
For blood has left upon their souls 

Its everlasting stain. 

And well," quoth he, " I know, for truth, 
Their pangs must be extreme, 

Woe, woe, unutterable woe, 
Who spill life's sacred stream ! 

For why ? Methought, last night, I wrought 
A murder, in a dream ! 

" One that had never done me wrong, 

A feeble man and old : 
I led him to a lonely field ; 

The moon shone clear and cold : 
Now here, said I, this man shall die, 

And I will have his gold ! 

** Two sudden blows with a ragged stick, 

And one with a heavy stone, 
One hurried gash with a hasty knife, 

And then the deed was done ; 
There was nothing lying at my foot 

But lifeless flesh and bone ! 

" Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, 

That could not do me ill ; 
And yet I fear'd him all the more, 

For lying there so still : 
There was a manhood in his look, 

That murder could not kill 



" And, lo ! the universal air 
Seem'd lit with ghastly flame ; 

Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes 
Were looking down in blame : 

I took the dead man by his hand, 
And call'd upon his name ! 

" Oh, God ! it made me quake to see 

Such sense within the slain ! 
But when I touch'd the lifeless clay, 

The blood gush'd out amain ! 
For every clot, a burning spot 

Was scorching in my brain ! 

" My head was like an ardent coal, 

My heart as solid ice ; 
My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, 

Was at the Devil's price ; 
A dozen times I groan'd : the dead 

Had never groan'd but twice. 

" And now, from forth the frowning sky, 
From the Heaven's topmost height, 

I heard a voice the awful voice 
Of the blood-avenging sprite : 

' Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead 
And hide it from my sight ! ' 

" I took the dreary body up, 

And cast it in a stream, 
A sluggish water, black as ink, 

The depth was so extreme : 
My gentle Boy, remember this 

Is nothing but a dream ! 

" Down went the corse with hollow plunj 

And vanish'd in the pool ; 
Anon I cleans'd my bloody hands, 

And wash'd my forehead cool, 
And sat among the urchins young, 

That evening in the school. 

" Oh, Heaven ! to think of their white soi 
And mine so black and grim ! 

I could not share in childish prayer 
Nor join in Evening Hymn : 

Like a Devil of the Pit I seem'd, 
'Mid holy Cherubim ! 

" And peace went with them, one and all, 
And each calm pillow spread ; 

But Guilt was my grim Chamberlain 
That lighted me to bed, 

And drew my midnight curtains round, 
With fingers bloody red ! 



THOMAS HOOD 



-'5 



* All night I lay in agony, 
i In anguish dark and deep, 
My fever'd eyes I dar'd not close, 

But star'd aghast at Sleep : 
Tor Sin had render'd unto her 

The keys of hell to keep. 

l"All night I lay in agony, 

From weary chime to chime, 
[ With one besetting horrid hint, 

That rack'd me all the time ; 
[A mighty yearning like the first 

Fierce impulse unto crime ; 

"One stern tyrannic thought, that made 

All other thoughts its slave : 
Stronger and stronger every pulse 

Did that temptation crave, 
| Still urging me to go and see 

The Dead Man in his grave ! 

f* Heavily I rose up, as soon 

As light was in the sky, 
Lnd sought the black accursed pool 
With a wild misgiving eye : 

I saw the Dead in the river bed, 
For the faithless stream was dry. 

| w Merrily rose the lark, and shook 
The dew-drop from its wing ; 
it I never mark'd its morning flight, 
I never heard it sing, 
Tor I was stooping once again 
Under the horrid thing. 

With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, 

1 took him up and ran ; 
here was no time to dig a grave 

Before the day began : 

a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, 

I hid the murder'd man. 

And all that day I read in school, 
But my thought was other where ; 
soon as the mid-day task was done, 
In secret I was there ; 

a mighty wind had swept the leaves, 
And still the corse was bare ! 

1 Then down I cast me on my face, 

And first began to weep, 
iV>r I knew my secret then was one 

That earth refus'd to keep : 
land or sea, though he should be 

Ten thousand fathoms deep. 



" So wills the fierce avenging Sprite, 

Till blood for blood atones 1 
Aye, though he 's buried in a cave, 

And trodden down with stones, 
And years have rotted off his flesh, 

The world shall see his bones. 

" Oh, God ! that horrid, horrid dream 

Besets me now awake I 
Again again, with dizzy brain, 

The human life I take ; 
And my red right hand grows raging 
hot, 

Like Cranmer's at the stake. 

" And still no peace for the restless clay 

Will wave or mould allow ; 
The horrid thing pursues my soul, 

It stands before me now 1 " 
The fearful Boy look'd up, and saw 

Huge drops upon bis brow. 

That very night, while gentle sleep 

The urchin eyelids kiss'd, 
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, 

Through the cold and heavy mist ; 
And Eugene Aram walk'd between, 

With gyves upon his wrist. 

FLOWERS 

I WILL not have the mad Clytie, 
Whose head is turn'd by the sun ; 
The tulip is a courtly quean, 
Whom, therefore I will shun ; 
The cowslip is a country wench, 
The violet is a nun ; 
But I will woo the dainty rose, 
The queen of every one. 

The pea is but a wanton witch, 
In too much haste to wed, 
And clasps her rings on every hand ; 
The wolfsbane I should dread ; 
Nor will I dreary rosemarye, 
That always mourns the dead ; 
But I will woo the dainty rose, 
With her cheeks of tender red. 

The lily is all in white, like a saint, 

And so is no mate for me, 

And the daisy's cheek is tipp'd with t 

blush, 
She is of such low degree j 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 



Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves, 
And the broom 's betroth'd to the bee ; 
But I will plight with the dainty rose, 
For fairest of all is she. 



FAIR INES 

O SAW ye not fair Ines ? 

She 's gone into the West, 

To dazzle when the sun is down, 

And rob the world of rest : 

She took our daylight with her, 

The smiles that we love best, 

With morning blushes on her cheek, 

And pearls upon her breast. 

turn again, fair Tnes, 
Before the fall of night, 

For fear the Moon should shine alone, 

And stars unrivall'd bright ; 

And blessed will the lover be 

That walks beneath their light, 

And breathes the love against thy cheek 

1 dare not even write. 

Would I had been, fair Ines, 

That gallant cavalier 

Who rode so gayly by thy side, 

And whisper'd thee so near ! 

Were there no bonny dames at home, 

Or no true lovers here, 

That he should cross the seas to win 

The dearest of the dear ? 

I saw thee, lovely Ines, 

Descend along the shore, 

With bands of noble gentlemen, 

And banners wav'd before ; 

And gentle youth and maidens gay, 

And snowy plumes they wore ; 

It would have been a beauteous dream, - 

If it had been no more ! 

Alas, alas, fair Ines, 

She went away with song, 

With Music waiting on her steps, 

And shoutings of the throng ; 

But some were sad, and felt no mirth, 

But only Music's wrong, 

In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell, 

To her you 've lov'd so long. 

Farewell, farewell, fair Ines J 
That vessel never bore 



So fair a lady on its deck, 

Nor danced so light before : 

Alas for pleasure on the sea, 

And sorrow on the shore I 

The smile that bless'd one lover's heart 

Has broken many more ! 

THE DEATH-BED 

WE watch'd her breathing thro' the night, 

Her breathing soft and low, 
As in her breast the wave of life 

Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seem'd to speak, 

So slowly mov'd about, 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her living out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears, 
Our fears our hopes belied 

We thought her dying when she slept, 
And sleeping when she died. 

For when the morn came dim and sad, 
And chill with early showers, 

Her quiet eyelids clos'd she had 
Another morn than ours. 

BALLAD 

IT was not in the winter 
Our loving lot was cast ; 
It was the time of roses, 
We pluck'd them as we pass'd. 

That churlish season never frown'd 
On early lovers yet : 
Oh, no the world was newly crown'd 
With flowers when first we met ! 

'T was twilight, and I bade you go, 

But still you held me fast ; 

It was the time of roses, 

We pluck'd them as we pass'd. 

What else could peer thy glowing cheek, 
That tears began to stud ? 
And when I ask'd the like of Love, 
You snatch'd a damask bud ; 

And op'd it to the dainty core, 
Still glowing to the last. 
It was the time of roses, 
We pluck'd them as we pass'd. 



THOMAS HOOD 



LEAR 

POOR old king with sorrow for my crowii, 
ron'd upon straw, and mantled with the 

wind 

?or pity, my own tears have made me blind 
~ mt I might never see my children's frown ; 
maybe madness like a frieiid has 
thrown 

A folded fillet over my dark mind, 
So that unkindly speech may sound for 
kind, 

Albeit I know not. I am childish grown, 
I And have not gold to purchase wit withal, 
I I that have once maintain'd most royal 

state, 

I A very bankrupt now that may not call 
K My child, my child all-beggar'd save in 

tears, 

Wherewith I daily weep an old man's 

fate, 

I Foolish and blind and overcome with 
years ! 



BALLAD 

SPRING it is cheery, 

Winter is dreary, 
Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly ; 

When he 's forsaken, 

Wither'd and shaken, 
What can an old man do but die ? 

Love will not clip him, 

Maids will not lip him, 
[ Maud and Marian pass him by ; 

Youth it is sunny, 

Age has no honey, 
What can an old man do but die ? 

June it was jolly, 
O for its folly 1 

dancing leg and a laughing eye ; 
Youth may be silly, 
Wisdom is chilly, 
can an old man do but die ? 

Friends they are scanty, 

Beggars are plenty, 
If he has followers, I know why ; 

Gold 's in his clutches, 

(Buying him crutches !) 
What can an old man do but die ? 



FROM "MISS KILMANSEGG AND 

HER PRJXIOUS LI 

HER DEATH 

T is a stern and startling thing to think 
How often mortality stands on the brink 

Of its rave without any misgiving : 
And yet in this slippery world of strife, 
In the stir of human bustle so rife, 
There are daily sounds to tell us thai Life 

Is dying, and Death is living ! 

Ay, Beauty the Girl, and Love the Boy, 
Bright as they are with hope and joy, 

How their souls would sadden instanter. 
To remember that one of those wedding 

bells, 

Which ring so merrily through the dells, 
Is the same that knells 
Our last farewells, 
Only broken into a canter I 

But breath and blood set doom at nought : 
How little the wretched Countess thought, 

When at night she unloos'd her sandal. 
That the Fates had woven her burial cloth, 
And that Death, in the shape of a Death's 
Head Moth, 

Was fluttering round her caudle ! 

As she look'd at her clock of or-molu, 
For the hours she had gone so wearily 
through 

At the end of a day of trial, 
How little she saw in her pride of prime 
The dart of Death in the Hand of Time 

That hand which mov'd on the dial ! 

As she went with her taper up the stair, 
How little her swollen eve was aware 

That the Shadow which followed waa 

double ! 

Or when she clos'd her chamber door, 
It was shutting out, and for evermore, 

The world and its worldly trouble. 

Little she dreamt, aa she laid aside 
Her jewels, after one glance of pride, 

They were solemn bequests to Vanity ; 
Or when her robes she began to doff 
That she stood so near to the putting off 

Of the flesh that clothes humanity. 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 



And when she quench'd the taper's light, 
How little she thought, as the smoke took 

flight, 
That her day was done and merged in a 

night 

Of dreams and durations uncertain, 
Or, along with her own, 
That a Hand of Bone 
Was closing mortality's curtain ! 

But life is sweet, and mortality blind, 
And youth is hopeful, and Fate is kind 

In concealing the day of sorrow ; 
And enough is the present tense of toil, 
For this world is to all a stiffish soil, 
And the mind flies Lack with a glad recoil 

From the debts not due till to-morrow. 

Wherefore else does the spirit fly 
And bids its daily cares good-bye, 

Along with its daily clothing ? 
Just as the felon condemn'd to die, 

With a very natural loathing, 
Leaving the Sheriff to dream of ropes, 
From his gloomy cell in a vision elopes 
To caper on sunny greens and slopes, 

Instead of the dance upon nothing. 

Thus, even thus, the Countess slept, 
While Death still nearer and nearer crept, 
Like the Thane who smote the sleeping ; 
But her mind was busy with early joys, 
Her golden treasures and golden toys, 
That flash'd a bright 
And golden light 
Under lids still red with weeping. 

The golden doll that she used to hug ! 
Her coral of gold, and the golden mug ! 

Her godfather's golden presents ! 
The golden service she had at her meals, 
The golden watch, and chain, and seals, 
Her golden scissors, and thread, and reels, 

And her golden fishes and pheasants! 

The golden guineas in silken purse, 

And the Golden Legends she heard from 

her nurse, 

Of the Mayor in his gilded carriage, 
And London streets that were pav'd with 

gold, 

And the Golden Eggs that were laid of old, 
With each golden thing 
To the golden ring 
At her own auriferous Marriage ! 



And still the golden light of the sun 
Through her golden dream appear'd to run, 
Though the night that roar'd without was 
one 

To terrify seamen or gypsies, 
While the moon, as if in malicious mirth, 
Kept peeping down at the ruffled earth, 
As though she enjoy'd the tempest's birth, 

In revenge of her old eclipses. 

But vainly, vainly, the thunder fell, 

For the soul of the Sleeper was under a spell 

That time had lately embitter'd : 
The Count, as once at her foot he knelt 
That foot which now he wanted to melt ! 
But hush ! 't was a stir at her pillow 
she felt, 

And some object before her glitter'd. 

'T was the Golden Leg ! she knew its 

gleam ! 
And up she started, and tried to scream, 

But, ev'n in the moment she started, 
Down came the limb with a frightful smash. 
And, lost in the universal flash 
That her eyeballs made at so mortal a crash, 

The Spark, call'd Vital, departed ! 

Gold, still gold ! hard, yellow, and cold, 
For gold she had liv'd, and she died fo* 
gold, 

By a golden weapon not oaken ; 
In the morning they found her all alone 
Stiff, and bloody, and cold as stone 
But her Leg, the Golden Leg, was gone, 

And the " Golden Bowl was broken ! " 

Gold still gold ! it haunted her yet : 
At the Golden Lion the Inquest met 

Its foreman a carver and gilder, 
And the Jury debated from twelve till three 
What the Verdict ought to be, 
And they brought it in as Felo-de-Se, 

" Because her own Leg had kill'd her ! " 

HER MORAL 

Gold ! Gold ! Gold ! Gold ! 
Bright and yellow, hard and cold, 
Molten, graven, hammer'd, and roll'd ; 
Heavy to get, and light to hold ; 
Hoarded, barter'd, bought, and sold, 
Stolen, borrow'd, squander'd, doled : 
Spurn'd by the young, but hugg'd by the old 
To the very verge of the churchyard mould ; 



THOMAS HOOD 



119 



Price of many a crime untold ; 
Gold ! Gold ! Gold ! Gold ! 
Good or bad a thousand-fold ! 

How widely its agencies vary : 
To save to ruin to curse to bless 
As even its minted coins express, 
Now stamp' d with the image of Good Queen 
Bess, 

And now of a bloody Mary. 

RUTH 

SHE stood breast high amid the corn, 
Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, 
Like the sweetheart of the sun, 
Who many a glowing kiss had won. 

On her cheek an autumn flush, 
Deeply ripen'd ; such a blush 
In the midst of brown was born, 
Like red poppies grown with corn. 

Round her eyes her tresses fell, 
Which were blackest none could tell, 
But long lashes veil'd a light 
That had else been all too bright. 

And her hat, with shady brim, 
Made her tressy forehead dim ; 
Thus she stood amid the stocks, 
Praising God with sweetest looks : 

Sure, I said, heav'n did not mean 
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean, 
Lay thy sheaf adown and come, 
Share my harvest and my home. 

THE WATER LADY 

ALAS, the moon should ever beam 
To show what man should never see ! 
I saw a maiden on a stream, 
And fair was she t 

I stayed awhile, to see her throw 
Her tresses back, that all beset 
The fair horizon of her brow 
With clouds of jet. 

I stayed a little while to view 
Her cheek, that wore in place of red 
The bloom of water, tender blue, 
Daintily spread. 



I stayed to watch, a little space, 
Her parted lips if she would sing ; 
The waters clos'd above her face 
With many a ring. 

And still I stayed a little more : 
Alas, she never comes again ! 
I throw my flowers from the shore, 
And watch in vain. 

I know my life will fade away, 
I know that I must vainly pine, 
For I am made of mortal clay, 
But she 's divine I 



ODE 

AUTUMN 



I SAW old Autumn in the misty moir 
Stand shadowless, like silence, listening 
To silence, for no lonely bird would sing 
Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, 
Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn ; 
Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright 
With tangled gossamer that fell by night, 
Pearling his coronet of golden corn. 



ii 



Where are the songs of Summer ? With 

the sun, 

Oping the dusky eyelids of the south, 
Till shade and silence waken up as one, 
And Morning sings with a warm odorous 

mouth. 

Where are the merry birds ? Away, away, 
On panting wiugs through the inclement 

skies, 

Lest owls should prey 
Undazzled at noon-day, 
And tear with horny beak their lustroui 
eyes. 

Ill 

Where are the blooms of Summer? IB 

the west, 

Blushing their last to the last sunny hours, 
When the mild Eve by sudden Night is 

prest 
Like tearful Proserpine, snatch'd from her 

flow'rs 
To a most gloomy breast. 



120 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 



Where is the pride of Summer, the green 

prime, 
The many, many leaves all twinkling ? 

Three 
On the moss'd elm ; three on the naked 

lime 
Trembling, and one upon the old oak 

tree ! 

Where is the Dryad's immortality ? 
Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew, 
Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through 
In the smooth holly's green eternity. 



IV 



The squirrel gloats on his accomplish'd 

hoard, 
The ants have brimm'd their garners with 

ripe grain, 

And honey bees have stor'd 
The sweets of Summer in their luscious 

cells ; 
The swallows all have wing'd across the 

main ; 
But here the Autumn melancholy dwells, 

And sighs her tearful spells 
Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain. 
Alone, alone, 
Upon a mossy stone, 
She sits and reckons up the dead and 

gone 

With the last leaves for a love-rosary, 
Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily, 
Like a dim picture of the drowned past 
In the hush'd mind's mysterious far away, 
Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the 

last 
Into that distance, gray upon the gray. 



O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded 
Under the languid downfall of her hair : 
She wears a coronal of flowers faded 
Upon her forehead, and a face of care ; 
There is enough of wither'd everywhere 
To make her bower, and enough of 

gloom ; 

There is enough of sadness to invite, 
If only for the rose that died, whose 

doom 

Is Beauty's, she that with the living bloom 
Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the 

light ; - 
There is enough of sorrowing, and quite 



Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth;i 

bear, 
Enough of chilly droppings for her 

bowl ; 

Enough of fear and shadowy despair, 
To frame her cloudy prison for the 

soul ! 



THE SONG OF THE SHIRT 

WITH fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread 

Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! 
In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 
She sang the Song of the Shirt ! " 

" Work ! work ! work ! 

While the cock is crowing aloof ! 
And work work work, 

Till the stars shine through the roof ! 
It 's Oh ! to be a slave 

Along with the barbarous Turk, 
Where woman has never a soul to save, 

If this is Christian work ! 

" Work work work 

Till the brain begins to swim ; 
Work work work 

Till the eyes are heavy and dim. 
Seam, and gusset, and band, 

Band, and gusset, and seam, 
Till over the buttons I fall asleep, 

And sew them on in a dream ' 

" Oh, Men, with Sisters dear ! 

Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives ! 
It is not linen you 're wearing out, 

But human creatures' lives ! 
Stitch stitch stitch, 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 
Sewing at once, with a double thread, 

A Shroud as well as a Shirt. 

" But why do I talk of Death ? 

That Phantom of grisly bone, 
I hardly fear his terrible shape, 

It seems so like my own 
It seems so like my own, 

Because of the fasts I keep ; 
Oh, God ! that bread should be so dear, 

And flesh and blood so cheap ! 



THOMAS HOOD 



121 



*' Work work work 1 

My labor never flags ; 
And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, 

A crust of bread and rags. 
That shatter'd roof and this naked floor 

A table a broken chair 
And a wall so blank, my shadow I t hank 

For sometimes falling there. 

Work work work ! 
From weary chime to chime, 

Work work work 
As prisoners work for crime ! 

Band, and gusset, and seam, 

Seam, and gusset, and band, 
Till the heart is sick, and the brain be- 
numb'd, 

As well as the weary hand. 

" Work work work, 
In the dull December light, 

And work work work, 
When the weather is warm and bright, 
While underneath the eaves 

The brooding swallows cling 
As if to show me their sunny backs 

And twit me with the spring. 

Oh ! but to breathe the breath 
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet, 

With the sky above my head, 
And the grass beneath my feet, 
For only one short hour 

To feel as I used to feel, 
Before I knew the woes of want 

And the walk that costs a meal, 

" Oh, but for one short hour ! 

A respite however brief ! 
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, 

But only time for Grief ! 
A little weeping would ease iny heart, 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 

Hinders needle and thread ! " 

With fingers weary and worn, 
With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat in unwomanly rags, 
Plying her needle and thread 

Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! 
In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 
Lnd still with a voice of dolorous pitch, 
" r ould that its tone could reach the Rich ! 
She sang this " Song of the Shirt ! " 



THE LAY OF THE LABORER 

A SPADE ! a rake t a hoe ( 

A pickaxe, or a bill ! 
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow, 

A flail, or what ye will, 
And here 's a ready hand 

To ply the needful tool, 
And skill'd enough, by lessons rough, 

In Labor's rugged school. 

To hedge, or dig the ditch, 

To lop or fell the tree, 
To lay the s wart h on the sultry field, 

Or plough the stubborn lea ; 
The harvest stack to bind, 

The wheaten rick to. thatch, 
And never fear in my pouch to find 

The tinder or the match. 

To a flaming barn or farm 

My fancies never roam ; 
The fire I yearn to kindle and burn 

Is on the hearth of Home ; 
Where children huddle and crouch 

Through dark long winter days, 
Where starving children huddle and crouch, 

To see the cheerful rays 
A-glowing on the haggard cheek, 

And not in the haggard's blaze ! 

To Him who sends a drought 

To parch the fields forlorn, 
The rain to flood the meadows with mud, 

The blight to blast the corn, 
To Him I leave to guide 

The bolt in its crooked path, 
To strike the miser's rick, and show 

The skies blood-red with wrath. 

A spade ! a rake ! a hoe ! 

A pickaxe, or a bill ! 
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow, 

A flail, or what ye will ; 
The corn to thrash, or the hedge to plash, 

The market-team to drive, 
Or mend the fence by the cover side, 

And leave the game alive. 

Ay, only give me work, 

And then you need not fear 
That I shall snare his worship's hare, 

Or kill his grace's deer ; 
Break into his lordship's house, 

To steal the plate so rich ; 



122 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 



Or leave the yeoman that had a purse 
To welter in a ditch. 

Wherever Nature needs, 

Wherever Labor calls, 
No job I '11 shirk of the hardest work, 

To shun the workhouse walls ; 
Where savage laws begrudge 

The pauper babe its breath, 
And doom a wife to a widow's life, 

Before her partner's death. 

My only claim is this, 

With labor stiff and stark, 
By lawful turn my living to earn 

Between the light and dark ; 
My daily bread, and nightly bed, 

My bacon and drop of beer 
But all from the hand that holds the land, 

And none from the overseer ! 

No parish money, or loaf, 

No pauper badges for me, 
A son of the soil, by right of toil 

Entitled to my fee. 
No alms I ask, give me my task : 

Here are the arm, the leg, 
The strength, the sinews of a Man, 

To work, and not to beg. 

Still one of Adam's heirs, 

Though doom'd by chance of birth 
To dress so mean, and to eat the lean 

Instead of the fat of the earth ; 
To make such humble meals 

As honest labor can, 
A bone and a crust, with a grace to God, 

And little thanks to man ! 

A spade ! a rake ! a hoe ! 

A pickaxe, or a bill ! 
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow, 

A flail, or what ye will ; 
Whatever the tool to ply, 

Here is a willing drudge, 
With muscle and limb, and woe to him 

Who does their pay begrudge ! 

Who every weekly score 

Docks labor's little mite, 
Bestows on the poor at the temple-door, 

But robb'd them over night. 
The very shilling he hop'd to save, 

As health and morals fail, 
Shall visit me in the New Bastile, 

The Spital or the Gaol ! 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS 

ONE more unfortunate, 
Weary of breath, 
Rashly importunate, 
Gone to her death ! 

Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care ; 
Fashioned so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair ! 

Look at her garments 
Clinging like cerements ; 
Whilst the wave constantly 
Drips from her clothing ; 
Take her up instantly, 
Loving, not loathing. 

Touch her not scornfully ; 
Think of her mournfully, 
Gently and humanly ; 
Not of the stains of her, 
All that remains of her 
Now is pure womanly. 

Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny 
Rash and undutif id : 
Past all dishonor, 
Death has left on her 
Only the beautiful. 

Still, for all slips of hers, 
One of Eve's family 
Wipe those poor lips of hers 
Oozing so clammily. 

Loop up her tresses 
Escaped from the comb, 
Her fair auburn tresses ; 
Whilst wonderment guesses 
Where was her home ? 

Who was her father ? 
Who was her mother ? 
Had she a sister ? 
Had she a brother ? 
Or was there a dearer one 
Still, and a nearer one 
Yet, than all other ? 

Alas ! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 
Under the sun ! 
Oh ! it was pitiful ! 



HOOD-SIMMONS 



Near a whole city full, 
Home she had none. 

Sisterly, brotherly, 
Fatherly, motherly 
Feelings had changed : 
Love, by harsh evidence, 
Thrown from its eminence ; 
Even God's providence 
Seeming estranged. 

Where the lamps quiver 

So far in the river, 

With many a light 

From window and casement, 

From garret to basement, 

She stood with amazement, 

Houseless by night. 

The bleak wind of March 
Made her tremble and shiver, 
But not the dark arch, 
Or the black flowing river ; 
Mad from life's history, 
Glad to death's mystery, 
Swift to be hurl'd 
Any where, any where 
Out of the world ! 

In she plunged boldly, 
No matter how coldly 
The rough river ran, 
Over the brink of it, 
Picture it think of it, 
Dissolute Man ! 
Lave in it, drink of it, 
Then, if you can ! 

Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care ; 
Fashion'd so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair ! 

Ere her limbs frigidly 
Stiffen too rigidly, 



Decently, kindly, 
Smooth and compose them ; 
And her eyes, close them, 
Staring so blindly ! 

Dreadfully staring 
Thro' muddy impurity, 
As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing 
Fix'd on futurity. 

Perishing gloomily, 
Spurr'd by contumely, . 
Cold inhumanity, 
Burning insanity, 
Into her rest, 
Cross her hands humbly, 
As if praying dumbly, 
Over her breast. 

Owning her weakness, 
Her evil behavior, 
And leaving, with meekness, 
Her sins to her Saviour I 



STANZAS 

FAREWELL, Life ! my senses swim, 
And the wprld is growing dim ; 
Thronging shadows cloud the light, 
Like the advent of the night ; 
Colder, colder, colder still,. 
Upward steals a vapor chill ; 
Strong the earthy odor grows 
I smell the mould above the rose ( 

Welcome, Life ! the Spirit strives I 
Strength returns and hope revives ; 
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn 
Fly like shadows at the morn ; 
O'er the earth there comes a bloom ; 
Sunny light for sullen gloom, 
Warm perfume for vapor cold 
I smell the rose above the mould I 



25artl)olomcto 



JTANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF 
THOMAS HOOD 

TAKE back into thy bosonc, earth, 
This joyous, May-eyed morrow, 



The gentlest child that evei mirth 
Gave to be rear'd by sorrow ! 

'Tis hard while rays half green, 

gold, 
Through vernal bowers are burning, 



half 



124 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 



And streams their diamond-mirrors hold 
To summer's face returning 

To say we 're thankful that his sleep 
Shall never more be lighter, 

In whose sweet-tongued companionship 
Stream, bower, and beam grew brighter ! 

But all the more intensely true 

His soul gave out each feature 
Of elemental love each hue 

And grace of golden nature ; 
The deeper still beneath it all 

Lurk'd the keen jags of anguish ; 
The more the laurels clasp'd his brow 

Their poison made it languish. 
Seem'd it that like the nightingale 

Of his own mournful singing, 
The tenderer would his song prevail 

While most the thorn was stinging. 

So never to the desert-worn 

Did fount bring freshness deeper, 
Than that his placid rest this morn 

Has brought the shrouded sleeper. 
That rest may lap his weary head 

Where charnels choke the city, 
Or where, mid woodlands, by his bed 

The wren shall wake its ditty ; 
But near or far, while evening's star 

Is dear to hearts regretting, 
Around that spot admiring thought 

Shall hover, unforgetting. 

And if this sentient, seething world 

Is, after all, ideal, 
Or in the immaterial furl'd 

Alone resides the real, 
Freed one ! there 's a wail for thee this 
hour 

Through thy lov'd elves' dominions ; 
Hush'd is each tiny trumpet-flower, 

And droopeth Ariel's pinions ; 
Even Puck, dejected, leaves his swing, 

To plan, with fond endeavor, 
What pretty buds and dews shall keep 

Thy pillow bright for ever. 

And higher, if less happy, tribes, 
The race of early childhood, 



Shall miss thy whims of frolic wit, 

That in the summer wild-wood, 
Or by the Christmas hearth, were hail'd, 

And hoarded as a treasure 
Of undecaying merriment 

And ever-changing pleasure. 
Things from thy lavish humor flung 

Profuse as scents, are flying 
This kindling morn, when blooms are born 

As fast as blooms are dying. 

Sublimer art owned thy control : 

The minstrel's mightiest magic, 
With sadness to subdue the soul, 

Or thrill it with the tragic. 
Now listening Aram's fearful dream, 

We see beneath the willow 
That dreadful thing, or watch him steal, 

Guilt-lighted, to his pillow. 
Now with thee roaming ancient groves, 

We watch the woodman felling 
The funeral elm, while through its boughs 

The ghostly wind comes knelling. 

Dear worshipper of Dian's face 

In solitary places, 
Shali thou no more steal, as of yore, 

To meet her white embraces ? 
Is there no purple in the rose 

Henceforward to thy senses ? 
For thee have dawn and daylight's close 

Lost their sweet influences ? 
No ! by the mental night untam'd 

Thou took'st to death's dark portal, 
The joy of the wide universe 

Is now to thee immortal ! 

How fierce contrasts the city's roar 

With thy new-conquer'd quiet ! 
This stunning hell of wheels that pour 

With princes to their riot ! 
Loud clash the crowds the busy clouds 

With thunder-noise are shaken, 
While pale, and mute, and cold, afar 

Thou liest, men-forsaken. 
Hot life reeks on, nor recks that one 

The playful, human-hearted 
Who lent its clay less earthiness, 

Is just from earth departed. 



H. MARTINEAU BLANCH ARD 



Harriet apartincau 



ON, ON, FOREVER 

BENEATH this starry arch 

Nought resteth or is still ; 
But all things hold their march, 

As if by one great will : 
Moves one, move all : hark to the foot-fall ! 
On, on, forever I 

Yon sheaves were once but seed ; 
Will ripens into deed ; 
As cave-drops swell the streams, 
Day-thoughts feed nightly dreams ; 
And sorrow tracketh wrong, 
As echo follows song : 
On, on, forever ! 



By night, like stars on high, 

The Hours reveal their train ; 
They whisper and go by : 

I never watch in vain. 
Moves one, move all : hark to the foot 
fall ! 
On, on, forever ! 

They pass the cradle-head, 
And there a promise shed ; 
They pass the moist new grave, 
And bid rank verdure wave ; 
They bear through every clime 
The harvests of all time. 
On, on, forever ! 



Xaman SManrftarfc 



NELL GWYNNE'S LOOKING- 
GLASS 

J8 antique, 'twixt thee and Nell 

iw we here a parallel, 
like thee, was forced to bear 

reflections, foul or fair. 
Thou art deep and bright within, 
Depths as bright belong'd to Gwynne ; 
Thou art very frail as well, 
Frail as flesh is, so was Nell. 

Thou, her glass, art silver-lin'd, 

Sin- too, had a silver mind : 

Thine is fresh till this far day, 

Hers till death ne'er wore away : 
Thou dost to thy surface win 
Wandering glances, so did Gwynne ; 
Eyes on thee long love to dwell, 
So men's eyes would do on Nell. 

Life-like forms in thee are sought, 
Such the forms the actress wrought ; 
Truth unfailing rests in you, 
Nell, whate'er she was, was true. 
Clear as virtue, dull as sin, 
Thou art oft, as oft was Gwynne ; 
Breathe ou thee, and drops will swell : 
Bright tears dimm'd the eyes of Nell. 



Thine 's a frame to charm the sight, 

Frain'd was she to give delight, 

Waxen forms here truly show 

Charles above and Nell below ; 

But between them, chin with chin, 
Stuart stands as low as Gwynne, 
Paired, yet parted, meant to tell 
Charles was opposite to Nell. 

Round the glass wherein her face 

Smil'd so oft, her " arms " we trace ; 

Thou, her mirror, hast the pair, 

Lion here, and leopard there. 

She had part in these, akin 
To the lion-heart was Gwynno ; 
And the leopard's beauty fell 
With its spots to bounding NelL 

Oft inspected, ne'er seen through, 

Thou art firm, if brittle too ; 

So her will, on good intent, 

Might be broken, never bent. 

What the glass was, when therein 
Beam'd the face of glad Nell Gwynn^ 
Was that face by beauty's spell 
To the honest soul of Nell. 



126 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 



HIDDEN JOYS 

PLEASURES lie thickest where no pleasures 

seem : 

There 's not a leaf that falls upon the ground 
But holds some joy, of silence, or^ of sound, 
Some sprite begotten of a summer dream. 
The very meanest things are made supreme 
With innate ecstacy. No grain of sand 
But moves a bright and million-peopled 

land, 
And hath its Edeus and its Eves, I deem. 



For Love, though blind himself, a curious 

eye 
Hath lent me, to behold the hearts of 

things, 
And touch'd mine ear with power. Thus, 

far or nigh, 
Minute or mighty, fix'd or free with 

wings, 
Delight from many a nameless covert 

sly 
Peeps sparkling, and in tones familiar 

sings. 



THE NET-BRAIDERS 

WITHIN a low-thatch'd hut, built in a lane 
Whose narrow pathway tendeth toward 

the ocean, 

A solitude which, save of some rude swain 
Or fisherman, doth scarce know human 

motion 
Or of some silent poet, to the main 

Straying, to offer infinite devotion 
To God, in the free universe there dwelt 
Two women old, to whom small store was 
dealt 

Of the world's misnam'd good : mother 

and child, 
Both aged and mateless. These two life 

sustain'd 

By braiding fishing-nets ; and so beguiPd 
Time and their cares, and little e'er com- 

plain'd 

Of Fate or Providence : resign'd and mild, 
Whilst day by day, for years, their. hour 
glass rain'd 

Its trickling sand, to track the wing of time, 
They toil'd in peace ; and much there was 
sublime 

ID their obscure contentment : of mankind 
They little knew, or reck'd ; but for their 

being 
They bless'd their Maker, with a simple 

mind ; 

And in the constant gaze of his all- 
seeing 

Eye, to his poorest creatures never blind, 
Deeming they dwelt, they bore their 
sorrows Heeing, 



Glad still to live, but not afraid to die, 
In calm expectance of Eternity. 

And since I first did greet those braiders 

poor, 

If ever I behold fair women's cheeks 
Sin-pale in stately mansions, where the 

door 
Is shut to all but pride, my cleft heart 

seeks ^ 
For refuge in my thoughts, which then ex 
plore 
That pathway lone near which the wild 

sea breaks, 

And to Imagination's humble eyes 
That hut, with all its want, is Paradise ! 

BIRTH AND DEATH 

METHINKS the soul within the body held 
Is as a little babe within the womb, 
Which flutters in its antenatal tomb, 
But stirs and heaves the prison where 't is 

cell'd, 
And struggles in strange darkness, undis- 

pell'd 
By all its strivings towards the breath and 

bloom 

Of that aurorean being soon to come 
Strivings of feebleness, by nothing quell'd :i 
And even as birth to the enfranchis'd 

child, 
Which shows to its sweet senses all the 

vast 

Of beauty visible and audible, 
Is death unto the spirit undefil'd ; 
Setting it free of limit, and the past, 
And all that in its prison-house befell. 



COOPER SARAH F. ADAMS 



127 



CHARTIST SONG 

THE time shall come when wrong shall end, 
When peasant to peer no more shall bend ; 
When the lordly Few shall lose their sway, 
And the Many no more their frown obey. 
Toil, brothers, toil, till the work is 

done, 

Till the struggle is o'er, and the Charter 
won ! 

The time shall come when the artisan 
Shall homage no more the titled man ; 
When the moiling men who delve the mine 
By Mammon's decree no more shall pine. 
Toil, brothers, toil, till the work is done, 
Till the struggle is o'er, and the Charter 
won. 

The time shall come when the weavers' 

band 

Shall hunger no more in their fatherland ; 
When the factory-child can sleep till day, 
And smile while it dreams of sport and 

play. 



Cooper 

Toil, brothers, toil, till the work is done, 
Till the struggle is o'er, and the Charter 



The time shall come when Man shall hold 
His brother more dear than sordid gold ; 
When the negro's stain his freebom mind 
Shall sever no more from human-kind. 
Toil, brothers, toil, till the world is free, 
Till Justice and Love hold jubilee. 

The time shall come when kingly crown 
And mitre for toys of the past are shown ; 
When the fierce and false alike shall fall, 
And mercy and truth encircle all. 

Toil, brothers, toil, till the world is free, 
Till Mercy and Truth hold jubilee ! 

The time shall come when earth shall be 

A garden of joy, from sea to sea, 

When the slaughterous sword is drawn no 

more, 

And goodness exults from shore to shore. 
Toil, brothers, toil, till the world is free, 
Till goodness shall hold high jubilee ! 



f lotoet 



HYMN 

HE sendeth sun, he sendeth shower, 
Alike they 're needful for the flower : 
And joys and tears alike are sent 
To give the soul fit nourishment. 
As comes to me or cloud or sun, 
Father 1 thy will, not mine, be done ! 

Can loving children e'er reprove 

With murmurs whom they trust and love ? 

Creator ! I would ever be 

A trusting, loving child to thee : 

As comes to me or cloud or sun, 

Father ! thy will, not mine, be done ! 

Oh, ne'er will I at life repine : 
Enough that thou hast made it mine. 
When falls the shadow cold of death 
I yet will sing, with parting breath, 
As comes to me or shade or sun. 
Father ! thy will, not mine, be done ! 



LOVE 

O LOVE ! thou makest all things even 

In earth or heaven ; 
Finding thy way through prison-bars 

Up to the stars ; 
Or, true to the Almighty plan, 
That out of dust created man, 
Thou lookest in a grave, to see 

Thine immortality t 

NEARER TO THEE 

NEARER, my God, to thee, 

Nearer to thee ! 
E'en though it be a cross 

That raiseth me ; 
Still all my sou* shall be, 
Nearer, my God, to thee, 

Nearer to thee ! 



128 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 



Though like the wanderer, 
The sun gone down, 

Darkness be over me, 
My rest a stone ; 

Yet in my dreams I 'd be 

Nearer, my God, to thee, 
Nearer to thee ! 

There let the way appear 
Steps unto heaven ; 

All that thou send'st to me 
In mercy given ; 

Angels to beckon me 

Nearer, my God, to thee, 
Nearer to thee ! 



Then, with my waking thoughts 
Bright with thy praise, 

Out of my stony griefs 
Bethel I '11 raise ; 

So by my woes to be 

Nearer, my God, to thee, 
Nearer to thee ! 

Or if on joyful wing 

Cleaving the sky, 
Sun, moon, and stars forgot, 

' Upward I fly, 
Still all my song shall be, 
Nearer, my God, to thee, 

Nearer to thee ! 



25totoning 



THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN 

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my 

brothers, 

Ere the sorrow comes with years ? 
They are leaning their young heads against 

their mothers, 

And that cannot stop their tears. 
The young lambs are bleating in the mead 
ows, 

The young birds are chirping in the nest, 
The young fawns are playing with the 

shadows, 
The young flowers are blowing toward 

the west : 
But the young, young children, O my 

brothers, 

They are weeping bitterly ! 
They are weeping in the playtime of the 

others, 
In the country of the free. 

Do you question the young children in the 

sorrow 

Why their tears are falling so ? 
The old man may weep for his to-morrow 

Which is lost in Long Ago ; 
The old tree is leafless in the forest, 

The old year is ending in the frost, 
The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, 

The old hope is hardest to be lost : 
But the young, young children, O my 

brothers, 
Do you ask them why they stand 



Weeping sore before the bosoms of theii 

mothers, 
In our happy Fatherland ? 

They look up with their pale and sunken 

faces, 

And their looks are sad to see, 
For the man's hoary anguish draws and 

presses 

Down the cheeks of infancy ; 
" Your old earth," they say, " is very dreary, 
Our young feet," they say, "are very 

weak ; 
Few paces have we taken, yet are weary 

Our grave-rest is very far to seek : 
Ask the aged why they weep, and not the 

children, 

For the outside earth is cold, 
And we young ones stand without, in our 

bewildering, 
And the graves are for the old." 

" True," say the children, " it may happen 

That we die before our time : 
Little Alice died last year, her grave ia 

shapen 

Like a snowball, in the rime. 
We looked into the pit prepared to take 

her : 
Was no room for any work in the close 

clay ! 
From the sleep wherein she lieth none will 

wake her, 
Crying, Get up, little Alice ! it is day.* 






ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 



129 



If you listen by that grave, in sun and 

shower, 
With your ear down, little Alice never 

cries : 
| Could we see her face, be sure we should 

not know her, 
For the smile has time for growing in her 

eyes : 
And merry go her moments, lull'd and 

still'd in 

The shroud by the kirk-chime, 
is good when it happens," say the chil 
dren, 
" That we die before our time." 

alas, the children ! they are seeking 
Death in life, as best to have : 
3y are binding up their hearts away from 

breaking, 

With a cerement from the grave. 
Go out, children, from the mine and from 

the city, 
Sing out, children, as the little thrushes 

do; 

luck your handfuls of the meadow-cow 
slips pretty, 
Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let 

them through ! 
hit they answer, "Are your cowslips of 

" the meadows 

Like our weeds anear the mine ? 
ive us quiet in the dark of the coal- 
shadows, 
From your pleasures fair and fine ! 

For oh," say the children, " we are weary, 

And we cannot run or leap ; 
we car'd for any meadows, it were merely 

To drop down in them and sleep, 
ir knees tremble sorely in the stooping, 
We fall upon our faces, trying to go ; 
1, underneath our heavy eyelids droop 
ing. 
The reddest flower would look as pale as 

snow. 
>r, all day, we drag our burden tiring 

Through the coal-dark, underground, 
Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron 
In the factories, round and round. 

* For all day, the wheels are droning, turn- 

Their wind comes in our faces, 
Till our hearts turn, our heads with pulses 

burning, 
And the walls turn in their places : 



Turns the sky in the high window blank and 

reeling, 
Turns the long light that drops adown the 

wall, 
Turn the black flies that crawl along the 

ceiling, 
All are turning, all the day, and we with 

all. 
And all day, the iron wheels are droning, 

And sometimes we could pray, 
' O ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad 

moaning) 
' Stop ! be silent for to-day ! ' " 

Ay, be silent i Let them hear each other 

breathing 

For a moment, mouth to mouth ! 
Let them touch each other's hands, in a 

fresh wreathing 
Of their tender human youth I 
Let them feel that this cold metallic motion 
Is not all the life God fashions or reveals : 
Let them prove their living souls against 

the notion 
That they live in you, or under you, O 

wheels ! 
Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, 

Grinding life down from its mark ; 
And the children's souls, which God is call 
ing sunward, 
Spin on blindly in the dark. 

Now tell the poor young children, O my 

brothers, 

To look up to Him and pray ; 
So the blessed One who blesseth all the 

others, 

Will bless them another day. 
They answer, " Who is God that lie should 

hear us, 
While the rushing of the iron wheels it 

stirr'd ? 
When we sob aloud, the human creatures 

near us 
Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a 

word. 
And we hear not (for the wheels in their 

resounding) 

Strangers speaking at the door : 
Is it likely God, with angels singing round 

Him, 
Hears our weeping any more ? 

"Two words, indeed, of praying we re 
member, 
And at midnight's hour of harm, 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 



Our Father,' looking upward in the cham 
ber, 

We say softly for a charm. 
We know no other words except * Our 

Father,' 
And we think that, in some pause of 

angels' song, 
God may pluck them with the silence sweet 

to gather, 
And hold both within His right hand 

which is strong. 
Our Father ! ' If He heard us, He would 

surely 

(For they call Him good and mild) 
Answer, smiling down the steep world very 

purely, 
* Come and rest with me, my child/ 

" But, no ! " say the children, weeping 

faster, 

" He is speechless as a stone : 
And they tell us, of His image is the master 

Who commands us to work on. 
Go to ! " say the children, " up in heaven, 
Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all 

we find. 

Do not mock us ; grief has made us unbe 
lieving : 
We look up for God, but tears have made 

us blind." 

Do you hear the children weeping and dis 
proving, 

O my brothers, what ye preach ? 
For God's possible is taught by His world's 

loving, 
And the children doubt of each. 

And well may the children weep before you! 

They are weary ere they run ; 
They have never seen the sunshine, nor the 

glory 

Which is brighter than the sun. 
They know the grief of man, without its 

wisdom ; 
They sink in man's despair, without its 

calm ; 

Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom, 
Are martyrs, by the pang without the 

palm : 

Are worn as if with age, yet unretrievingly 
The harvest of its memories cannot 

reap, 

Are orphans of the earthly love and heav 
enly. 
Let them weep ! let them weep ! 



They look up with their pale and sunken 

faces, 

And their look is dread to see, 
For they mind you of their angels in high 

places, 

With eyes turned on Deity. 
" How long," they say, " how long, O cruel 

nation, 
Will you stand, to move the world, on 3 

child's heart, 

Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpita 
tion, 
And tread onward tt your throne amid 

the mart ? 
Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper, 

And your purple shows your path ! 
But the child's sob in the silence curses 

deeper 
Than the strong man in his wrath." 

MY HEART AND I 

ENOUGH ! we 're tired, my heart and I. 
We sit beside the headstone thus, 
And wish that name were carv'd for us. 

The moss reprints more tenderly 

The hard types of the mason's knife, 
As Heaven's sweet life renews earth's life 

With which we 're tired, my heart and I. 

You see we 're tired, my heart and I. 
We dealt with books, we trusted men, 
And in our own blood drench'd the pen, 

As if such colors could not fly. 

We walk'd too straight for fortune's end, 
We lov'd too true to keep a friend ; 

At last we 're tired, my heart and I. 

How tired we feel, my heart and I ! 

We seem of no use in the world ; 

Our fancies hang gray and uncurl'd 
About men's eyes indifferently ; 

Our voice which thrill'd you so, will let 

You sleep ; our tears are only wet : 
What do we here, my heart and I ? 

So tired, so tired, my heart and I ! 

It was not thus in that old time 

When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime 
To watch the sunset from the sky. 

" Dear love, you 're looking tired," he 
said : 

I, smiling at him, shook my head. 
'T is now we 're tired, my heart and I. 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 



So tired, so tired, my heart and I ! 

Though now none takes me on his arm 
To fold me close and kiss me warm 

jTill each quick breath end in a sigh 
Of happy languor. Now, alone, 
We lean upon this graveyard stone, 

lUncheer'd, unkiss'd, my heart and I. 

Tirt-d out we are, my heart and I. 
Suppose the world brought diadems 
To tempt us, crusted with loose gems 

Of powers and pleasures ? Let it try. 
We scarcely care to look at even 
A pretty child, or God's blue heaven, 

We feel so tired, my heart and I. 

r et who complains ? My heart and I ? 
In this abundant earth no doubt 
Is little room for things worn out : 

lain them, break them, throw them by ! 
And if before the days grew rough 
We once were lov'd, us'd, well enough, 
think, we 've far'd, my heart and I. 

iNNETS FROM THE PORTU 
GUESE 



THOUGHT once how Theocritus had sung 
the sweet years, the dear and wish'd- 

f or years, 

each one in a gracious hand appears 
bear a gift for mortals, old or young : 
1, as I mus'd it in his antique tongue, 
saw, in gradual vision through my tears, 
sweet,*sad years, the melancholy years, 
of my own life, who by turns had flung 
shadow across me. Straightway I was 

'ware, 

weeping, how a mystic Shape did move 
lind me, and drew me backward by the 
hair ; 

L voice said in mastery, while I 
strove, 
* Guess now who holds thee ! " " Death," 

I said. But, there, 

The silver answer rang " Not Death, but 
Love." 

IV 

THOU hast thy calling to some palace-floor, 
Most gracious singer of high poems 1 where 
The dancers will break footing, from the care 
Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more. 



And dost thou lift this house's latch too poor 
For hand of thine ? and canst thou think 

and bear 

To let thy music drop here unaware 
In folds of golden fulness at my door ? 
Look up and see the casement broken in, 
The bats and owlets builders in the roof I 
My cricket chirps against thy mandolin. 
Hush, call no echo up in further proof 
Of desolation ! there 's a voice within 
That weeps ... as thou must sing . . . 

alone, aloof. 



I LIFT my heavy heart up solemnly, 
As once Electra her sepulchral urn, 
And, looking in thine eyes, I overturn 
The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see 
What a great heap of grief lay hid in me, 
And how the red wild sparkles dimly barn 
Through the ashen grayuess. If thy foot 

in scorn 

Could tread them out to darkness utterly, 
It might be well perhaps. But if instead 
Thou wait beside me for the wind to blow 
The gray dust up, ... those laurels on 

thine head, 

O my Beloved, will not shield thee so, 
That none of all the fires shall scorch and 

shred 
The hair beneath. Stand further off then ! 

go ! 

VI 

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand 
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore 
Alone upon the threshold of my door 
Of individual life, I shall command 
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand 
Serenely in the sunshine as before, 
Without the sense of that which I fore- 
bore 
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest 

land 
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in 

mine 

With pulses that beat double. What I do 
And what I dream include thee, as the 

wine 
Must taste of its own grapes. And when 1 

sue 
God for myself, He hears that name of 

thine, 
And sees within my eyes the tears of two. 



I 3 2 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 



IX 

CAN it be right to give what I can give ? 
To let thee sit beneath the fall of tears 
As salt as mine, and hear the sighing years 
Re-sighing on my lips renunciative 
Through those infrequent smiles which fail 

to live 

For all thy adjurations ? O my fears, 
That this can scarce be right ! We are not 

peers 

So to be lovers ; and I own, and grieve, 
That givers of such gifts as mine are, must 
Be counted with the ungenerous. Out, alas ! 
I will not soil thy purple with my dust, 
Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice-glass, 
Nor give thee any love which were unjust. 
Beloved, I only love thee ! let it pass. 

XVIII 

I NEVER gave a lock of hair away 
To a man, Dearest, except this to thee, 
Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully 
I ring out to the full brown length and 

say 

"Take it." My day of youth went yester 
day ; 

My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee, 
Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree, 
As girls do, any more : it only may 
Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of 

tears, 
Taught drooping from the head that hangs 

aside 
Through sorrow's trick. I thought the 

funeral-shears 

Would take this first, but Love is justi 
fied, 
Take it thou, finding pure, from all those 

years, 
The kiss my mother left here when she died. 

XX 

BELOVED, my Beloved, when I think 
That thou wast in the world a year ago, 
What time I sat alone here in the snow 
And saw no footprint, heard the silence 

sink 

No moment at thy voice, but, link by link, 
Went counting all my chains as if that so 
They never could fall off at any blow 
Struck by thy possible hand, why, thus I 

drink 



Of life's great cup of wonder ! Wonderful, 
Never to feel thee thrill the day or night 
With personal act or speech, nor ever 

cull 
Some prescience of thee with the blossoms 

white 
Thou sawest growing ! Atheists are as 

dull, 
Who cannot guess God's presence out of 

sight. 

XXII 

WHEN our two souls stand up erect and 

strong, 
Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and 

nigher, 

Until the lengthening wings break into fire 
At either curved point, what- bitter wrong 
Can the earth do to us, that we should not 

long 
Be here contented ? Think ! In mounting 

higher, 

The angels would press on us and aspire 
To drop some golden orb of perfect song 
Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay 
Rather on earth, Beloved, where the unfit 
Contrarious moods of men recoil away 
And isolate pure spirits, and permit 
A place to stand and love in for a day, 
With darkness and the death-hour rounding 

it. 

XXIII 

Is it indeed so ? If I lay here dead, 
Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine ? 
And would the sun for thee more coldly 

shine 
Because of grave-damps falling round my 

head? 

I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read 
Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine 
But . . . so much to thee ? Can I pour 

thy wine 
While my hands tremble ? Then my soul, 

instead 
Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower 

range. 
Then, love me, Love ! look on me breathe 

on me ! 

As brighter ladies do not count it strange, 
For love, to give up acres and degree, 
I yield the grave for thy sake, and ex 
change 
My near sweet view of heaven, for earth 

with thee ! 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 



'33 



XXVI 

I LIV'D with visions for my company 
Instead of men and women, years ago, 
And found them gentle mates, nor thought 

to know 

A sweeter music than they play'd to me. 
But soon their trailing purple was not free 
Of this world's dust, their lutes did silent 

grow, 

And I myself grew faint and blind below 
Their vanishing eyes. Then THOU didst 

come to be, 
Beloved, what they seem'd. Their shining 

fronts, 
Their songs, their splendors, (better, yet 

the same, 

As river-water hallow'd into fonts) 
Met in thee, and from out thee overcame 
My soul with satisfaction of all wants : 
Because God's gift puts man's best dreams 

to shame. 



XXXV 

IF I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange 
And be all to me ? Shall I never miss 
Home-talk and blessing and the coinmcn 

kiss 
That comes to each in turn, nor count it 

strange, 

len I look up, to drop on a new range 
walls and floors, another home than this ? 
Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which 

is 
U'd by dead eyes too tender to know 

change 
That 's hardest ? If to conquer love, has 

tried, 
To conquer grief, tries more, as all things 

prove, 

.For grief indeed is love and grief beside. 
Alas, I have griev'd so I am hard to love. 
Yet love me wilt thou? Open thine 

heart wide, 
And fold within the wet wings of thy dove. 

XXXVIII 

ST time he kiss'd me, he but only kiss'd 

: The fingers of this hand wherewith I write ; 
And ever since, it grew more clean and 

white, 
Slow to world-greetings, quick with its 

" Oh, list," 



When the angels speak. A ring of ame- 

thyst 

I could not wear here, plainer to my sight, 
Than that first kiss. The second pass'd in 

height 
The first, and sought the forehead, and half 



Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed ! 
That was the chrism of love, which love'g 

own crown, 

With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. 
The third upon my lips was folded down 
In perfect, purple state ; since when, in- 

deed, 
I have been proud and said, " My love, my 

own." 

XXXIX 

BECAUSE thou hast the power and own'st 
the grace 

To look through and behind this mask of 
me, 

(Against which, years have beat thus 
blanchingly 

With their rains,) and behold my soul's 
true face, 

The dim and weary witness of life's race, 

Because thou hast the faith and love to see, 

Through that same soul's distracting 
lethargy, 

The patient angel waiting for a place 

In the new Heavens, because nor sin 
nor woe, 

Nor God's infliction, nor death's neighbor 
hood, 

Nor all which others viewing, turn to go, 

Nor all which makes me tired of all, self- 
vie w'd, 

Nothing repels thee, . . . Dearest, teach 
me so 

To pour out gratitude, as thou dost, good I 

XLI 

I THANK all who have lovM me ir their 

hearts, 
With thanks and love from mine. Deep 

thanks to all 

Who paus'd a little near the prison-wall 
To hear my music in its louder parts f 
Ere they went onward, each one to the 

mart's 

Or temple's occupation, beyond call. 
But thou, who, in my voice's sink and fall 
When the sob took it, thy divineet Art s 



134 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 



Own instrument didst drop down at thy 
foot 

To hearken what I said between my 
tears, . . . 

Instruct me how to thank thee ! Oh, to 
shoot 

My soul's full meaning into future years, 

That they should lend it utterance, and 
salute 

Love that endures, from Life that disap 
pears ! 

XLIII 

How do I love thee ? Let me count the 

ways. 
I love thee to the depth and breadth and 

height 
My soul can reach, when feeling out of 

sight 

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. 
I love thee to the level of every day's 
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right ; 
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. 
I love thee with the passion put to use 
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's 

faith. 

I love thee with a love I seem'd to lose 
With my lost saints, I love thee with the 

breath, 
Smiles, tears, of all my life ! and, if God 

choose, 
I shall but love thee better after death. 



A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT 

WHAT was he doing, the great god Pan, 

Down in the reeds by the river ? 
Spreading ruin and scattering ban, 
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, 
And breaking the golden lilies afloat 
With the dragon-fly on the river. 

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, 
From the deep cool bed of the river : 
The limpid water turbidly ran, 
And the broken lilies a-dying lay, 
And the dragon-fly had fled away, 
Ere he brought it out of the river. 

High on the shore sat the great god Pan, 

While turbidly flow'd the river ; 
And hack'd and hew'd as a great god 
can, 



With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed, 
Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed 
To prove it fresh from the river. 

He cut it short, did the great god Pan, 
(How tall it stood in the river !) 

Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, 

Steadily from the outside ring, 

And notch'd the poor dry empty thing 
In holes, as he sat by the river. 

" This is the way," laugh'd the great god 

Pan, 

(Laugh'd while he sat by the river,) 
" The only way, since gods began 
To make sweet music, they could succeed.*' 
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the 

reed, 
He blew in power by the river. 

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan ! 

Piercing sweet by the river ! 
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan ! 
The sun on the hill forgot to die, 
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly 

Came back to dream on the river. 

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, 
To laugh as he sits by the river, 

Making a poet out of a man : 

The true gods sigh for the cost and pain, 

For the reed which grows nevermore again 
As a reed with the reeds in the river. 



FROM "CASA GUIDI WINDOWS" 

JULIET OF NATIONS 

I HP:ARD last night a little child go singing 
'Neath Casa Guidi windows, by the 

church, 

bella liberta, bella ! stringing 
The same words still on notes he went in 

search 

So high for, you concluded the upspringing 

Of such a nimble bird to sky from perch 

Must leave the whole bush in a tremble 

green, 

And that the heart of Italy must beat, 
While such a voice had leave to rise serene 
'Twixt church and palace of a Florence 

street : 

A little child, too, who not long had been 

By mother's finger steadied on his feet, 

And still O bella liberta he sang. 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 



'35 



Then I thought, musing, of the innumer- 

ous 

Sweet songs which still for Italy out- 
rang 
From older singers' lips who sang not thus 

Exultingly and purely, yet, with pang 
Fast sheath'd in music, touch'd the heart 

of us 

So finely that the pity scarcely pain'd. 
I thought how Filicaja led on others, 
Bewailers for their Italy enchaiu'd, 
And how they calFd her childless among 

mothers, 
Widow of empires, ay, and scarce re- 

frain'd 

Cursing her beauty to her face, as brothers 
Might a sham'd sister's, " Had she 

been less fair 
She were less wretched ; " how, evoking 

so 

From congregated wrong and heap'd de 
spair 
Of men and women writhing under blow, 

Harrow'd and hideous in a filthy lair, 
Some personating Image wherein woe 
Was wrapp'd in beauty from offending 

much, 
They call'd it Cybele, or Niobe, 

Or laid it corpse-like on a bier for 

such, 

Where all the world might drop for Italy 
Those cadenced tears which burn not 

where they touch, 
u Juliet of nations, canst thou die as we ? 
And was the violet that crown'd thy 

head 
So over-large, though new buds made it 

rough, 
It slipp'd down and across thine eyelids 

dead, 
O sweet, fair Juliet?" Of such songs 

enough, 
Too many of such complaints ! behold, 

instead, 
Void at Verona, Juliet's marble trough : 

As void as that is, are all images 
Men set between themselves and actual 

wrong, 
To catch the weight of pity, meet the 

stress 
Of conscience, since 't is easier to gaze 

long 

On mournful masks and sad effigies 
Than on real, live, weak creatures crush'd 
by strong. 



SURSUM CORDA 

The sun strikes, through the windows, up 

the floor ; 

Stand out in it, my own young Florentine, 
Not two years old, and let me see the* 

more 1 

It grows along thy amber curia, to shine 
Brighter than elsewhere. Now, look 

straight before, 
And fix thy brave blue English eyes on 

mine, 

And from my soul, which fronts the fu 
ture so, 
With unabash'd and unabated gaze, 

Teach me to hope for, what the angeU 

know 
When they smile clear as thou dost. Down 

God's ways 
With just alighted feet, between the 

snow 
And snowdrops, where a little lamb may 

graze, 
Thou hast no fear, my lamb, about the 

road, 
Albeit in our vain-glory we assume 

That, less than we have, thou hast learnt 

of God. 
Stand out, my blue-eyed prophet ! thou, 

to whom 
The earliest world-day light that ever 

flow'd, 
Through Casa Guidi windows chanced to 

come ! 
Now shake the glittering nimbus of thy 

hair. 

And be God's witness that the elemental 
New springs of life are gushing every- 

where 

To cleanse the water-courses, and prevent all 
Concrete obstructions which mfeat the 

air! 

That earth 's alive, and gentle or ungentle 
Motions within her, signify but 

growth ! 

The ground swells greenest o'er the labor 
ing moles. 
Howe'er the uneasy world U vex'd and 

wroth, 

Young children, lifted high on parent souta, 
Look round them with a smile upon the 

mouth, 

And take for music every bell that tolls ; 
(WHO said we should be better if liki 
these?; 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 



But we sit murmuring for the future though 

Posterity is smiling on our knees, 
Convicting us of folly. Let us go 

We will trust God. The blank interstices 
Men take for ruins, He will build into 

With pillar'd marbles rare, or knit across 
With generous arches, till the fane 's com 
plete. 

This world has no perdition, if some loss. 

Such cheer I gather from thy smiling, Sweet ! 
The self-same cherub-faces which emboss 
The Vail, lean inward to the Mercy-seat. 

A COURT LADY 

HER hair was tawny with gold, her eyes 

with purple were dark, 
Her cheeks' pale opal burnt with a red and 

restless spark. 

Never was lady of Milan nobler in name 

and in race ; 
Never was lady of Italy fairer to see in the 

face. 

Never was lady on earth more true as 

woman and wife, 
Larger in judgment and instinct, prouder 

in manners and life. 

She stood in the early morning, and said 

to her maidens, " Bring 
That silken robe made ready to wear at 

the court of the king. 

" Bring me the clasps of diamond, lucid, 

clear of the mote, 
Clasp me the large at the waist, and clasp 

me the small at the throat. 

"Diamonds to fasten the hair, and dia 
monds to fasten the sleeves, 

Laces to drop from their rays, like a powder 
of snow from the eaves." 

Gorgeous she enter'd the sunlight which 
gather'd her up in a flante, 

While, straight in her open carriage, she to 
the hospital came. 

In she went at the door, and gazing from 

end to end, 
"Many and low are the pallets, but each 

is the place of a friend." 



Up she pass'd through the wards, and 
stood at a young man's bed : 

Bloody the band on his brow, and livid the 
droop of his head. 

" Art thou a Lombard, my brother ? 

Happy art thou," she cried, 
And smiled like Italy on him : he dream'd 

in her face and died. 

Pale with his passing soul, she went on still 

to a second : 
He was a grave hard man, whose years by 

dungeons were reckon 'd. 

Wourds in his body were sore, wounds in 

his life were sorer. 
" Art thou a Romagnole ? " Her eyes 

drove lightnings before her 

" Austrian and priest had join'd to double 

and tighten the cord 
Able to bind thee, O strong one, free by 

the stroke of a sword. 

" Now be grave for the rest of us, using 

the life overcast 
To ripen our wine of the present, (too new,) 

in glooms of the past." 

Down she stepp'd to a pallet where lay a 

face like a girl's, 
Young, and pathetic with dying, a deep 

black hole in the eurls. 

"Art thou from Tuscany, brother? and 
seest thou, dreaming in pain, 

Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching 
the List of the slain ? " 

Kind as a mother herself, she touch'd his 
cheeks with her hands : 

"Blessed is she who has borne thee, al 
though she should weep as she 
stands." 

On she pass'd to a Frenchman, his arm 

carried off by a ball : 
Kneeling, . . . " O more than my brother I 

how shall I thank thee for all ? 

" Each of the heroes around us has fought 

for his land and line, 
But thou hast fought for a stranger, in hate 

of a wrong not thine. 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 



'37 



" Happy are all free peoples, too strong to 

be dispossessed : 
But blessed are those among nations, who 

dare to be strong for the rest ! " 

Ever she pass'd on her way, and came to a 

couch where pin'd 
One with a face from Venetia, white with a 

hope out of mind. 

Long she stood and gaz'd, and twice she 

tried at the name, 
But two great crystal tears were all that 

falter'd and came. 

Only a tear for Venice ? she turn'd as in 

passion and loss, 
And stoop'd to his forehead and kiss'd it, 

as if she were kissing the cross. 

Faint with that strain of heart she mov'd 

on then to another, 
Stern and strong in his death. " And dost 

thou suffer, my brother ? " 

Holding his hands in hers : " Out of the 
Piedmont lion 

Cometh the sweetness of freedom ! sweet 
est to live or to die on." 

Holding his cold rough hands, " Well, 

oh, well have ye done 
In noftle, noble Piedmont, who would not 

be noble alone." 

:k he fell while she spoke. She rose to 

her feet with a spring, 
**That was a Piedmontese ! and this is the 
Court of the King." 



MOTHER AND POET 

TURIN, AFTER NEWS FROM GAETA, l86l 

DEAD ! One of them shot by the sea in 

the east, 
And one of them shot in the west by the 

sea. 
Dead ! both my boys ! When you sit at 

the feast 
And are wanting a great song for Italy 

free, 
Let none look at me I 



Yet I was a poetess only last year, 

And good at my art, for a woman, men 

said ; 

But this woman, this, who is agoniz'd here, 
The east sea and west sea rhyme on 

in her head 
For ever instead. 

What art can a woman be good at ? Oh, 

vain! 
What art ts she good at, but hurting her 

breast 
With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile 

at the pain ? 
Ah boys, how you hurt ! you were strong 

as you press'd, 
And I proud, by that test. 

What art 's for a woman ? To hold on her 

knees 
Both darlings ; to feel all their arms 

round her throat, 

Cling, strangle a little, to sew by degrees 
And 'broider the long-clothes and neat 

little coat ; 
To dream and to doat. 

To teach them ... It stings there! / 

made them indeed 
Speak plain the word country. I taught 

them, .no doubt, 
That a country 's a thing men should die 

for at need. 

/ prated of liberty, rights, and about 
The tyrant cast out. 

And when their eyes flash'd ... O my 

beautiful eyes ! . . . 
I exulted ; nay, let them go forth at the 

wheels 
Of the guns, and denied not. But then 

the surprise 
When one sits quite alone ! Then one 

weeps, then one kneels ! 
God, how the house feels ! 

At first, happy news came, in gay letters 

moil'd , 
With my kisses, of camp-life and 

glory, and how 
They both lov'd me; and, soon coming 

home to be spoil'd, 
In return would fan off every fly from 

my brow 
With their green laurel-bough. 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 



Then was triumph at Turin : " Ancona 

was free ! " 
And someone came out of the cheers in 

the street, 
With a face pale as stone, to say something 

to me. 
My Guido was dead I I fell down at his 

feet, 
While they cheer'd in the street. 

I bore it ; friends sooth'd me ; my grief 

look'd sublime 
As the ransom of Italy. One boy re- 

main'd 
To be leant on and walk'd with, recalling 

the time 
When the first grew immortal, while 

both of us strain'd 
To the height he had gain'd. 

And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more 

strong, 
Writ now but in one hand, " I was not to 

faint, 
One lov'd me for two would be with me 

ere long : 
And Viva I* Italia! he died for, our 

saint, 
Who forbids our complaint." 

My Nanni would add, "he was safe, and 

aware 
Of a presence that turn'd off the balls, 

was impress'd 
Ifc was Guido himself, who knew what I 

could bear, 
And how 't was impossible, quite dispos- 

sess'd, 
"To live on for the rest." 

On tfhich, without pause, up the telegraph- 
line, 
Swept smoothly the next news from 

Gaeta : Shot . 
TsU his mother. Ah, ah, " his," " their " 

mother, not " mine," 
No voice says "My mother" again to 

me. What! 
You think Guido forg'ot ? 

Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with 

Heaven, 

They drop earth's affections, conceive 
not of woe ? 



I think not. Themselves were too lately 

forgiven 
Through THAT Love and Sorrow which 

reconcil'd so 
The Above and Below. 

O Christ of the five wounds, who look dst 

through the dark 
To the face of Thy mother ! consider, I 



How we common mothers stand desolate, 

mark, 
Whose sons, not being Christs, die with 

eyes turn'd away, 
And no last word to say ! 

Both boys dead ? but that 's out of nature. 

We all 
Have been patriots, yet each house must 

always keep one. 

'T were imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall; 
And, when Italy 's made, for what end is 

it done 
If we have not a son ? 

Ah, ah, ah ! when Gaeta 's taken, what 

then ? 
When the fair wicked queen sits no more 

at her sport 
Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out 

of men ? 
When the guns of Cavalli with final re 

tort 

Have cut the game short ? 

When Venice and Rome keep their new 

jubilee, 
When your flag takes all heaven for its 

white, green, and red, 
When you have your country from moun 

tain to sea, 
When King Victor has Italy's crown on 

his head, 
(And / have my Dead) 

What then ? Do not mock me. Ah, ring 

your bells low, 
And burn your lights faintly ! My 

country is there, 
Above the star prick'd by the last peak of 

snow : 
My Italy 's THERE, with my brave civio 

Pair, 
To disfranchise despair 1 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 



'39 



Forgive me. Some women bear children 

in strength, 
And bite back the cry of their pain in 

self-scorn ; 
But the birth-pangs of nations will wring 

us at length 
Into wail such as this and we sit on 

forlorn 
When the man-child is born. 

Dead ! One of them shot by the sea in the 

east, 
And one of them shot in the west by the 

sea, 

Both ! both my boys ! If in keeping the feast 
You want a great song for your Italy free, 
Let none look at me. 

[This was Laura Savio, of Turin, a poet and patriot, 
whose sons were killed at Aucona and Gaeta.] 



FROM "AURORA LEIGH" 

MOTHERLESS 

I WRITE. My mother was a Florentine, 
Whose rare blue eyes were shut from see 
ing me 
When scarcely I was four years old ; my 

life, 
A poor spark snatch 'd up from a failing 

lamp 
Which went out therefore. She was weak 

and frail ; 

She could not bear the joy of giving life 
The mother's rapture slew her. If her kiss 
Had left a longer weight upon my lips, 
It might have steadied the uneasy breath, 
And reconcil'd and fraterniz'd my soul 
With the new order. As it was, indeed, 
I felt a mother-want about the world, 
And still went seeking, like a bleating lamb 
Left out at night, in shutting up the fold, 
As restless as a nest-deserted bird 
Grown chill through something being away, 

though what 

It knows not. I, Aurora Leigh, was born 
To make my father sadder, and myself 
Not overjoyous, truly. Women know 
The way to rear up children (to be just,) 
They know a simple, merry, tender knack 
Of tying sashes, fitting baby-shoes, 
And stringing pretty words that make no 

sense, 
And kissing full sense into empty words ; 



Which things are corals to cut life upon, 
Although such trifles : children learn by 

such, 

Love's holy earnest in a pretty play, 
And get not over-early solemniz'd, 
But seeing, as in a rose-bush, Love 's Divine, 
Which burns and hurts not, not a single 

bloom, 

Become aware and unafraid of Love, he 
Such good do mothers. Fathers love as 

well 
Mine did, I know, but still with 

heavier brains, 

And wills more consciously responsible, 
And not as wisely, since less foolishly ; 
So mothers have God's license to be unss'd. 

BOOKS 

Or else I sat on in my chamber green, 
And liv'd my life, and thought my thoughts, 

and pray'd 
My prayers without the vicar ; read my 

books, 

Without considering whether they were fit 
To do me good. Mark, there. We get no 



By being ungenerous, even to a book, 
And calculating profits ... so much help 
By so much reading. It is rather when 
We gloriously forget ourselves, and plunge 
Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's pro 
found, 
Impassion'd for its beauty and salt of 

truth 

'Tis then we get the right good from a 
book. 



THE POETS 

I had found the secret of a garret-room 
Pil'd high with cases in my father's name ; 
Pil'd high, pack'd large, where, creeping 

in and out 

Among the giant fossils of my past, 
Like some small nimble mouse between the 

ribs 

Of a mastodon, I nibbled here and there 
At this or that box, pulling through the gap, 
In heats of terror, haste, victorious joy, 
The first book first. And how 1 felt it 

beat 

Under my pillow, in the morning's dark, 
An hour before the sun would let me read ! 
My books ! 



140 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 



At last, because the time was ripe, 
I chanced upon the poets. 

As the earth 

Plunges in fury, when the internal fires 
Have reach'd and prick'd her heart, and, 

throwing flat 
The marts and temples, the triumphal 

gates 

And towers of observation, clears herself 
To elemental freedom thus, my soul, 
At poetry's divine first finger touch, 
Let go conventions and sprang up surpris'd, 
Convicted of the great eternities 
Before two worlds. 

What 's this, Aurora Leigh, 
You write so of the poets, and not laugh ? 
Those virtuous liars, dreamers after dark, 
Exaggerators of the sun and moon, 
And soothsayers in a tea-cup? 

I write so 

Of the only truth-tellers, now left to God, 
The only speakers of essential truth, 
Oppos'd to relative, comparative, 
And temporal truths ; the only holders by 
His sun-skirts, through conventional gray 

glooms ; 

The only teachers who instruct mankind, 
From just a shadow on a charnel wall, 
To find man's veritable stature out, 
Erect, sublime, the measure of a man, 
And that 's the measure of an angel, says 
The apostle. 

THE FERMENT OF NEW WINE 

And so, like most young poets, in a flush 
Of individual life, I pour'd myself 
Along the veins of others, and achiev'd 
Mere lifeless imitations of live verse, 
And made the living answer for the dead, 
Profaning nature. " Touch not, do not taste, 
Nor handle," we're too legal, who write 

young : 
We beat the phorminx till we hurt our 

thumbs, 

As if still ignorant of counterpoint ; 
We call the Muse . . . "O Muse, benignant 

Muse!"- 

As if we had seen her purple-braided head 
With the eyes in it start between the 

boughs 

As often as a stag's. What make-believe, 
With so much earnest ! what effete results, 
From virile efforts ! what cold wire-drawn 

odes, 



From such white heats ! bucolics, where 

the cows 
Would scare the writer if they splash'd the 

mud 

In lashing off the flies, didactics, driven 
Against the heels of what the master said ; 
And counterfeiting epics, shrill with trumps 
A babe might blow between two straining 

cheeks 

Of bubbled rose, to make his mother laugh j 
And elegiac griefs, and songs of love, 
Like cast-off nosegays pick'd up on the 

road, 
The worse for being warm : all these things, 

writ 

On happy mornings, with a morning heart> 
That leaps for love, is active for resolve, 
Weak for art only. Oft, the ancient forms 
Will thrill, indeed, in carrying the young 

blood. 
The wine-skins, now and then, a little 

warp'd, 
Will crack even, as the new wine gurgles 

in. 
Spare the old bottles ! spill not the new 



By Keats's soul, the man who never stepp'd 
In gradual progress like another man, 
But, turning grandly on his central self, 
Enspher'd himself in twenty perfect years 
And died, not young, (the life of a long 

life, 

Distill'd to a mere drop, falling like a tear 
Upon the world's cold cheek to make it 

burn 

For ever ;) by that strong excepted soul, 
I count it strange, and hard to understand, 
That nearly all young poets should write 

old ; 

That Pope was sexagenarian at sixteen, 
And beardless Byron academical, 
And so with others. It may be, perhaps, 
Such have not settled long and deep enough 
In trance, to attain to clairvoyance, and 

still 

The memory mixes with the vision, spoils, 
And works it turbid. 

Or perhaps, again 

In order to discover the Muse-Sphinx, 
The melancholy desert must sweep round, 
Behind you, as before. 

For me, I wrote 
False poems, like the rest, and thought 

them true, 






ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 



myself was true in writing them. 
I, perad venture, have writ true ones siuce 
With less complacence. 



ENGLAND 

Whoever lives true life, will love true love. 
I learu'd to love that England. Very oft, 
Before the day was born, or otherwise 
Through secret windings of the afternoons, 
I threw my hunters off and plunged myself 
Among the deep hills, as a hunted stag 
Will take the waters, shivering with the 

fear 
And passion of the course. And when, at 

last 
Escap'd, so many a green slope built on 

slope 

jtwixt me and the enemy's house behind, 
dar'd to rest, or wander, like a rest 
le sweeter for the step upon the grass, 
view the ground's most gentle dimple- 

ment, 

if God's finger touch'd but did not press 
making England !) such an up and down 
! verdure, nothing too much up or down, 
ripple of land ; such little hills, the sky 
Jan stoop to tenderly and the wheatfields 

climb ; 

Such nooks of valleys, lin'd with orchises, 
Fed full of noises by invisible streams ; 
And open pastures, where you scarcely tell 
White daisies from white dew, at inter 
vals 

The mythic oaks and elm-trees standingout 
Self-pois'd upon their prodigy of shade, 
I thought my father's land was worthy too 
Of being my Shakespeare's. . . . 
. . . Breaking into voluble ecstacy, 
I flatter'd all the beauteous country round, 
As poets use . . . the skies, the clouds, the 

fields, 

The happy violets hiding from the roads 
The primroses run down to, carrying 

gold, 
The tangled hedgerows, where the cows 

push out 
ipatient horns and tolerant churning 

mouths 
"wixt dripping ash-boughs, hedgerows 

all alive 

r ith birds and gnats and large white but 
terflies 

Which look as if the May-flower had sought 
life 



And palpitated forth upon the wind, 
Hills, vales, woods, netted in a silver mist, 
Farms, granges, doubled up among the luIU, 
And cattle grazing in the water'U vales, 
And cottage-chimneys smoking from the 

woods, 

And cottage-gardens smelling everywhere, 
Coiifus'd with smell of orchards. See," I 

said, 

" And see ! is God not with us on the earth ? 
And shall we put Him down by aught we 

do ? 
Who says there 's nothing for the poor and 

vile 

Save poverty and wickedness ? behold ! " 
And ankle-deep in English grass I leap'd, 
And clapp'd my hands, and call'd all very 

fair. 



"BY SOLITARY FIRES " 

O my God, my God, 
O supreme Artist, who as sole return 
For all the cosmic wonder of Thy work, 
Demandest of us just a word ... a name, 
"My Father!" thou hast knowledge, 

only thou, 

How dreary 't is for women to sit still 
On winter nights by solitary fires, 
And hear the nations praising them far off, 
Too far ! ay, praising our quick sense of 

love, 

Our very heart of passionate womanhood, 
Which could not beat so in the verse with 
out 

Being present also in the unkiss'd lip*, 
And eyes undried because there 's none to 

ask 
The reason they grew moist. 

To sit alone, 
And think, for comfort, how, that very 

night, 

Affianced lovers, leaning face to face 
With sweet half-listenings for each other's 

breath, 

Are reading haply from some page of oum, 
To pause with a thrill, as if their cheeks 

had touch'd, 

When such a stanza, level to their mood, 
Seems floating their own thoughts out 

" So I feel 
For thee," " And I, for thee : this poet 

knows 
What everlasting love is!" how, that 

night 



1 4 2 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 



A father issuing from the misty roads 
Upon the luminous round of lamp and 

hearth 

And happy children, having caught up first 
The youngest there until it shrunk and 

shriek'd 
To feel the cold chin prick its dimple 

through 
With winter from the hills, may throw i' 

the lap 
Of the eldest (who has learn'd to drop her 

lids 
To hide some sweetness newer than last 

year's) 
Our book and cry, ..." Ah you, you care 

for rhymes ; 

So here be rhymes to pore on under trees, 
When April comes to let you ! I 've been 

told 

They are not idle as so many are, 
But set hearts beating pure as well as 

fast: 
It 's yours, the book ; I '11 write your name 

in it, 

That so you may not lose, however lost 
In poet's lore and charming reverie, 
The thought of how your father thought of 

you 
In riding from the town." 

To have our books 

Apprais'd by love, associated with love, 
While we sit loveless ! is it hard, you think ? 
At least 't is mournful. Fame, indeed, 't was 

said, 

Means simply love. It was a man said that. 
And then there 's love and love : the love 

of all 

(To risk, in turn, a woman's paradox,) 
Is but a small thing to the love of one. 
You bid a hungry child be satisfied 
With a heritage of many corn-fields : nay, 
He says he 's hungry, he would rather 



That little barley-cake you keep from him 
While reckoning up his harvests. So with 



us. 



ROMNEY AND AURORA 

But oh, the night ! oh, bitter-sweet ! oh, 

sweet ! 

O dark, O moon and stars, O ecstasy 
Of darkness ! O great mystery of love, 
In which absorb'd, loss, anguish, treason's 

self 



Enlarges rapture, as a pebble dropp'd 
In some full wine-cup, over-brims the wine ! 
While we two sate together, lean'd that 

night 
So close, my very garments crept and 

thrill'd 
With strange electric life ; and both my 

cheeks 
Grew red, then pale, with touches from my 

hair 
In which his breath was ; while the golden 

moon 

Was hung before our faces as the badge 
Of some sublime inherited despair, 
Since ever to be seen by only one, 
A voice said, low and rapid as a sigh, 
Yet breaking, I felt conscious, from a 

smile, 
" Thank God, who made me blind, to make 

me see ! 

Shine on, Aurora, dearest light of souls, 
Which rul'st for evermore both day and 

night ! 
I am happy." 

I flung closer to his breast, 
As sword that, after battle, flings to 

sheathe ; 

And, in that hurtle of united souls, 
The mystic motions, which in common moods 
Are shut beyond our sense, broke in on us, 
And, as we sate, we felt the old earth spin, 
And all the starry turbulence of worlds 
Swing round us in their audient circles, till 
If that same golden moon were overhead 
Or if beneath our feet, we did not know. 



THE SLEEP 

OF all the thoughts of God that are 
Borne inward into souls afar, 
Along the Psalmist's music deep, 
Now tell me if that any is 
For gift or grace surpassing this 
" He giveth His beloved, sleep " ? 

What would we give to our beloved ? 
The hero's heart to be unmoved, 
The poet's star-tun 'd harp to sweep, 
The patriot's voice to teach and rouse, 
The monarch's crown to light the brows ? 
He giveth His beloved, sleep. 

What do we give to our beloved ? 
A little faith all undisproved, 



MRS. BROWNING DOMETT 



'43 



little dust to overweep, 

nd bitter memories to make 
The whole earth blasted for our sake : 
He giveth His beloved, sleep. 

Sleep soft, beloved ! " we sometimes say 
~o have no tune to charm away 

dreams that through the eyelids creep: 
Jut never doleful dream again 

break the happy slumber when 
He giveth His beloved, sleep. 

earth, so full of dreary nofses ! 

men, with wailing in your voices ! 

delved gold, the wallers heap ! 
O strife, curse, that o'er it fall ! 
God strikes a silence through you all, 
And giveth His beloved, sleep. 

[if dews drop mutely on the hill, 

[is cloud above it saileth still, 
Though on its slope men sow and reap : 
More softly than the dew is shed, 



Or cloud is floated overhead, 
He giveth His beloved, sleep. 

Ay, men may wonder while they scan 
A living, thinking, feeling man 
Confirm'd in such a rest to keep ; 
But angels say, and through tin* word 
I think their happy smile is heard 
" He giveth His beloved, sleep." 

For me, my heart that erst did go 
Most like a tired child at a show, 
That sees through tears the mum mers leapt 
Would now its wearied vision close, 
Would childlike on His love repose 
Who giveth His beloved, sleep. 

And friends, dear friends, when it shall be 
That this low breath is gone from me, 
And round my bier ye come to weep, 
Let One, most loving of you all, 
Say, " Not a tear must o'er her fall 1 
He giveth His beloved, sleep." 



3filfre& Domett 



A GLEE FOR WINTER 

IENCE, rude Winter ! crabbed old fel 
low, 

Sever merry, never mellow ! 
RTell-a-day ! in rain and snow 
RThat will keep one's heart aglow ? 
3roups of kinsmen, old and young, 
Dldest they old friends among ; 
jroups of friends, so old and true 
That they seem our kinsmen too ; 
These all merry all together 
3harm away chill Winter weather. 

What will kill this dull old fellow ? 
fAle that's bright, and wine that's mel 
low! 

'Dear old songs for ever new ; 
Some true love, and laughter too ; 
Pleasant wit, and harmless fun, 
And a dance when day is done. 
Music, friends so true and tried, 
Whisper'd love by warm fireside, 
Mirth at all times all together, 
Make sweet May of Winter weather. 



A CHRISTMAS HYMN 
(OLD STYLE: 1837) 

IT was the calm and silent night ! 

Seven hundred years and fifty-three 
Had Rome been growing up to might, 

And now was Queen of land and sea. 
No sound was heard of clashing wars ; 

Peace brooded o'er the hush'd domain \ 
Apollo, Pallas, Jove and Mars, 

Held undisturb'd their ancient reign, 

In the solemn midnight 

Centuries ago. 

T was in the calm and silent night I 

The senator of haughty Rome 
Impatient urged his chariot's flight, 

From lordly revel rolling home. 
Triumphal arches gleaming swell 

His breast with thoughts of boundless 

sway ; 

What reck'd the Roman what befell 
A paltry province far away, 

In the solemn midnight 
Centuries ago 1 



144 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 



Within that province far away 

Went plodding home a weary boor : 
A streak of light before him lay, 

Fall'u through a half-shut stable door 
Across his path. He pass'd for nought 

Told what was going on within ; 
How keen the stars ! his only thought ; 

The air how calm and cold and thin, 

In the solemn midnight 

Centuries ago ! 

O strange indifference ! low and high 
Drows'd over common joys and cares : 
The earth was still but knew not why ; 

The world was listening unawares. 
How calm a moment may precede 

One that shall thrill the world for 

ever ! 

To that still moment none would heed, 
Man's doom was link'd, 110 more to 
sever, 

In the solemn midnight 
Centuries ago. 

It is the calm and solemn night ! 

A thousand bells ring out, and throw 
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite 

The darkness, charm'd and holy now. 
The night that erst no name had worn, 

To it a happy name is given ; 
For in that stable lay new-born 

The peaceful Prince of Earth and Hea 
ven, 

In the solemn midnight 
Centuries ago. 



FROM "A CHRISTMAS HYMN' 
(NEW STYLE : 1875) 

To murder one so young ! 
To still that wonder-teeming tongue 
Ere half the fulness of its mellow'd glory 
Had flash'd in mild sheet-lightnings forth! 
Who knows, had that majestic Life grown 

hoary, 
Long vers'd in all man's weakness, woes 

and worth, 
What beams had pierced the clouds that 

veil thi voyage of care ! 
Not Zeus, nor Baal's throne, 
Nor Osiris alone, 

But Doubt, or worse assurance of Despair, 
Or Superstition's brood that blends the tiger 
with the hare. 

Who knows but we had caught 
Some hint from pure impassion'd 

Thought, 
How Matter's links and Spirit's, that still 

fly us, 

Can break and still leave Spirit free ; 
How Will can act o'ermaster'd by no bias ; 

Why Good omnipotent lets Evil be ; 
What balm heals beauteous Nature's uni 
versal flaw ; 

And how, below, above, 
It is Love, and only Love 
Bids keen Sensation glut Destruction's 

maw 

Love rolls this groaning Sea of Life on 
pitiless rocks of Law ! 



H&ttltam 

GLENKINDIE 

ABOUT Glenkindie and his man 

A false ballant hath long been writ ; 

Some bootless loon had written it, 

Upon a bootless plan : 
But I have found the true at last, 
And here it is, so hold it fast ! 
'T was made by a kind damosel 
Who lov'd him and his man right well. 

Glenkindie, best of harpers, came 

Unbidden to our town ; 
And he was sad, and sad to see, 

For love had worn him down. 



cott 



It was love, as all men know, 

The love that brought him down, 

The hopeless love for the King's daugh 
ter, 
The dove that heir'd a crown. 

Now he wore not that collar of gold, 

His dress was forest green ; 
His wondrous fair and rich mantel 

Had lost its silvery sheen. 

But still by his side walk'd Rafe, his boy, 

In goodly cramoisie : 
Of all the boys that ever I saw 

The goodliest boy was he. 



WILLIAM BELL SCOTT 



'45 



Rafe the page ! O Rafe the page ! 
Ye stole the heart f rae me : 

Rafe the page ! O Rafe the page ! 
I wonder where ye be : 

We ne'er may see Glenkindie more, 
But may we never see thee ? 

Glenkindie came within the hall ; 
We set him on the dais, 
id gave him bread, and gave him wine, 
The best in all the place. 

set for him the guests' high chair, 
And spread the naperie : 
ir Dame herself would serve for him, 
And I for Rafe, perdie ! 

But down he sat on a low low stool, 

And thrust his long legs out, 
And lean'd his back to the high chair, 

And turn'd his harp about. 

turn'd it round, he strok'd the strings, 
He touch'd each tirling-pin, 
He put his mouth to the sounding-board 
Aiid breath'd his breath therein. 

And Rafe sat over against his face, 
And look'd at him wistfullie : 

1 almost grat ere he began, 
They were so sad to see. 

The very first stroke he strack that day, 
We all came crowding near ; 
id the second stroke he strack that day, 
We all were smit with fear. 

The third stroke that he strack that day, 

Full fain we were to cry ; 
The fourth stroke that he strack that day, 

We thought that we would die. 

To tongue can tell how sweet it was, 

How far, and yet how near : 
We saw the saints in Paradise, 
And bairnies on their bier. 

And our sweet Dame saw her good 
lord 

She told me privilie : 
She saw him as she saw him last, 

On his ship upon the sea. 

Anon he laid his little harp by, 
He shut his wondrous eyes ; 



We stood a long time like dumb things, 
Stood in a dumb surprise. 

Then all at once we left that trance, 

And shouted where we stood ; 
We clasp'd each other's hands and vow'd 

We would be wise and good. 

Soon he rose up and Rafe rose too, 
He drank wine and broke bread ; 

He clasp'd hands with our trembling Dame, 
But never a word he said ; 

They went, Alack and lack-a-day ! 
They went the way they came. 

I follow'd them all down the floor, 

And O but I had drouth 
To touch his cheek, to touch his hand, 

To kiss Rafe's velvet mouth ! 

But I knew such was not for me. 

They went straight from the door ; 
We saw them fade within the mist, 

And never saw them more. 

YOUTH AND AGE 

OUR night repast was ended : quietness 
Return'd again : the boys were in their 

books ; 

The old man slept, and by him slept his dog : 
My thoughts were in the dream-land of to 
morrow : 
A knock is heard; anon the maid brings 

in 

A black-seaPd letter that some over-work'd 
Late messenger leaves. Each one looks 

round and scans, 

But lifts it not, and I at last am told 
To read it. '* Died here at his house this 

day"- 
Some well-known name not needful here 

to print, 

Follows at length. Soon all return again 
To their first stillness, but the old man 

coughs, 
And cries, "Ah, he was always like the 

grave, 
And still he was but young ! " while those 

who stand 

On life's green threshold smile within them 
selves, 

Thinking how very old he was to them, 
And what long years, what memorable 
deeds, 



146 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 



Are theirs in prospect ! Little care have 
they 

What old man dies, what child is born, in 
deed ; 

Their day is coming, and their sun shall 
shine 1 

PYGMALION 

J * MISTRESS of gods and men ! I have been 

thine 

From boy to man, and many a myrtle rod 
Have I made grow upon thy sacred sod, 
Nor ever have I pass'd thy white shafts nine 
Without some votive offering for the shrine, 
Carv'd beryl or chas'd bloodstone ; aid 

me now, 

And I will live to fashion for thy brow 
Heart-breaking priceless things : oh, make 

her mine." 

Venus inclin'd her ear, and through the 

Stone 
Forthwith slid warmth like spring through 

sapling-stems, 
And lo, the eyelid stirr'd, beneath had 

grown 

The tremulous light of life, and all the hems 
Of her zon'd peplos shook. Upon his breast 
She sank, by two dread gifts at once op- 

press'd. 

MY MOTHER 

THERE was a gather'd stillness in the room : 
Only the breathing of the great sea rose 
From far off, aiding that profound repose, 
With regular pulse and pause within the 

gloom 

Of twilight, as if some impending doom 
Was now approaching ; I sat moveless 

there. 
Watching with tears and thoughts that were 

like prayer, 
Till the hour struck, the thread dropp'd 

from the loom ; 
And the Bark pass'd in which freed souls 

are borne. 
The dear stilPd face lay there ; that sound 

forlorn 

Continued ; I rose not, but long sat by : 
And now my heart oft hears that sad sea 
shore, 

When she is in the far-off land, and I 
Wait the dark sail returning yet once more. 



THE NORNS WATERING 
YGGDRASILL 

(FOR A PICTURE) 

WITHIN the unchanging twilight 
Of the high land of the gods, 

Between the murmuring fountain 
And the Ash-tree, tree of trees, 

The Norns, the terrible maidens, 
For evermore come and go, 

Yggdrasill the populous Ash-tree, 
Whose leaves embroider heaven, 

Fills all the gray air with music 
To Gods and to men sweet sounds, 

But speech to the fine-ear'd maidens 
Who evermore come and go. 

That way to their doomstead thrones 

The Aesir ride each day, 
And every one bends to the saddle 

As they pass beneath the shade ; 
Even Odin, the strong All-father, 
Bends to the beautiful maidens 

Who cease not to come and go. 

The tempest crosses the high boughs, 
The great snakes heave below, 

The wolf, the boar, and antler'd harts 
Delve at the life-giving roots, 

But all of them fear the wise maidens, 

The wise-hearted water-bearers 
Who evermore come and go. 

And men far away, in the night-hours 
To the north- wind listening, hear ; 

They hear the howl of the were-wolf, 
And know he hath felt the sting 

Of the eyes of the potent maidens 
Who sleeplessly come and go. 

They hear on the wings of the north-wind 
A sound as of three that sing ; 

And the skald, in the blae mist wandering 
High on the midland fell, 

Heard the very words of the o'ersong 
Of the Norns who come and go. 

But alas for the ears of mortals 

Chance-hearing that fate-laden song ! 

The bones of the skald lie there still : 
For the speech of the leaves of the Tree 

Is the song of the three Queen-maidens 
Who evermore come and go. 



SCOTT LINTON 



'47 



TO THE DEAD 
(A PARAPHRASE) 

GONE art thou ? gone, and is the light of 

day 
Still shining, is my hair not touch'd with 

gray ? 

But evening draweth nigh, I pass the door, 
And see thee walking on the dim-lit shore. 

Gone, art thou? gone, and weary on the 

brink 
Of Lethe waiting there. O do not drink, 



Drink not, forget not, wait a little while, 
I shall he with thee ; we again may smile. 

HERO-WORSHIP 

How would the centuries long asunder 
Look on their sires with angry wonder, 
Could some strong necromantic power 
Revive them for one spectral hour i 
Bondsmen of the past are we, 
Predestin'd bondsmen : could we see 
The dead now deified, again 
Peering among environing men, 
We might be free. 



Slintou 



EVICTION i 

LONG years their cabin stood 

Out on the moor ; 
More than one sorrow-brood 

Pass'd through their door ; 
Ruin them over-cast, 
Worse than one wintry blast ; 
Famine's plague follow'd fast : 

God help the poor ! 

There on that heap of fern, 

Gasping for breath, 
Lieth the wretched ke'rn, 

Waiting for death : 
Famine had brought him low ; 
Fever had caught him so, 
O thou sharp-grinding woe, 

Outwear thy sheath ! 

Dying, or living here 
Which is the worse ? 

Misery's heavy tear, 

Back to thy source ! 

Who dares to lift her head 

Up from the scarcely dead ? 

Who pulls the crazy shed 
Down on the corse ? 

What though some rent was due, 
Hast thou no grace ? 

So may God pardon you, 
Shame of your race ! 



What though that home may be 
Wretched and foul to see, 
What if God harry thee 
Forth from His face ? 

Widow 'd and orphan'd ones, 

Flung from your rest ! 
Where will you lay your bones ? 

Bad was your best. 
Out on the dreary road, 
Where shall be their abode ? 
One of them sleeps with God : 

Where are the rest ? 

PATIENCE 1 

BE patient, O be patient ! Put your ear 

against the earth ; 
Listen there how noiselessly the germ o* the 

seed has birth ; 
How noiselessly and gently it upheaves its 

little way 
Till it parts the scarcely-broken ground, 

and the blade stands up in the day. 

Be patient, O be patient ! the germs of 

mighty thought 
Must have their silent undergrowth, must 

underground be wrought ; 
But, as sure as ever there 's a Power that 

makes the grass appear, 
Our land shall be green with Liberty, the 

blade-time shall be here. 



1 From his early Poem* of Freedom. 



148 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 



Be patient, O be patient ! go and watch the 

wheat-ears grow, 
So imperceptibly that ye can mark nor 

change nor throe : 
Day after day, day after day till the ear is 

fully grown ; 
And then again day after day, till the 

ripen'd field is brown. 

Be patient, O be patient ! though yet our 

hopes are green, 
The harvest-field of Freedom shall be 

crown 'd with the sunny sheen. 
Be ripening, be ripening ! mature your 

silent way 
Till the whole broad land is tongued with 

fire on Freedom's harvest day. 

OUR CAUSE 1 

So, Freedom, thy great quarrel may we 

serve, 

With truest zeal that, sensitive of blame, 
Ever thy holy banner would preserve 
As pure as woman's love or knightly fame. 

And though detraction's flood we proudly 

breast, 

Or, weakening, sink in that unfathonvd sea, 
Ever we '11 keep aloft our banner, lest 
Even the black spray soil its purity. 

My life be branded and my name be flung 

To infamy ; beloved, I will wear 

Thy beauty on my shield, till even the 

tongue 
Of falsehood echo truth, and own thee fair. 

HEART AND WILL 1 

OUR England's heart is sound as oak ; 

Our English will is firm ; 
And through our actions Freedom spoke 

In history's proudest term : 
When Blake was lord from shore to shore, 

And Cromwell rul'd the land, 
And Milton's words were shields of power 

To stay the oppressor's hand. 

Our England's heart is yet as sound, 

As firm our English will ; 
And tyrants, be they cowl'd or crown'd, 

Shall find us fearless still. 
And though our Vane be in his tomb, 

Though Hampden's blood is cold, 

1 From his early 



Their spirits live to lead our doom 
As in the days of old. 

Our England's heart is stout as oak ; 

Our English will as brave 
As when indignant Freedom spoke 

From Eliot's prison grave. 
And closing yet again with Wrong, 

A world in arms shall see 
Our England foremost of the strong 

And first among the free. 

FROM "A THRENODY: IN 
MEMORY OF ALBERT DARASZ " 

O BLESSED Dead ! beyond all earthly pains: 
Beyond the calculation of low needs ; 
Thy growth no longer chok'd by earthly 

weeds ; 
Thy spirit clear'd from care's corrosive 

chains. 

O blessed Dead ! O blessed Life-in-death, 
Transcending all life's poor decease of 
breath ! 

Thou walkest not upon some desolate moor 
In the storm-wilderhig midnight, when 

thine own, 
Thy trusted friend, hath lagg'd and left 

thee lone. 

He knows not poverty who, being poor, 
Hath still one friend. But he who fain 

had kept 
The comrade whom his zeal hath over- 

stept. 

Thou sufferest not the friendly cavilling 
Impugning motive ; nor that worse than 

spear 
Of f oeman, biting doubt of one most 

dear 

Laid in thy deepest heart, a barbed sting 
Never to be withdrawn. For we were 

friends : 
Alas ! and neither to the other bends. 

Thou hast escap'd continual falling off 
Of old companions ; and that aching void 
Of the proud heart which has been over- 

buoy'd 
With friendship's idle breath ; and now the 

scoff 

Of failure even as idly passeth by 
Thy poor remains : Thou soaring 

through the sky. 
Poems of Freedom. 



WILLIAM JAMES LINTON 



149 



Knowing no more that malady of hope 

The sickness of deferral, thou canst 
look 

Thorough the heavens and, healthily pa 
tient, brook 
Delay, defeat. For in thy vision's scope 

Most distant cometh. We might see it 
too, 

But dizzying faintness overveils our 
view. 

And when disaster flings us in the dust, 
Or when we wearily drop on the highway- 
side, 
Or when in prison'd, exil'd depths the 

pride 

Of suffering bows its head, as oft it must, 
We cannot, looking on thy wasted corse, 
Perceive the future. Lend us of thy 
force ! 

LOVE AND YOUTH 

Two winged genii in the air 
I greeted as they pass'd me by : 
The one a bow and quiver bare, 

The other shouted joyously. 
Both I besought to stay their speed, 
But never Love nor Youth had heed 
Of my wild cry. 

As swift and careless as the wind, 
Youth fled, nor ever once look'd back ; 
A moment Love was left behind, 

But follow'd soon his fellow's track. 
Yet loitering at my heart he bent 
His bow, then smil'd with changed intent : 
The string was slack. 

TOO LATE 

I YES ! thou art fair, and I had lov'd 
If we in earlier hours had met ; 
But ere tow'rd me thy beauty mov'd 

The sun of Love's brief day had set. 

[ Though I may watch thy opening bloom, 
And its rich promise gladly see, 
T will not procrastinate my doom : 
The ripen'd fruit is not for me. 

i ' 

Yet, had I shar'd thy course of years, . 
And young as Hope beheld thy charms, 
The love that only now endears 
Perchance had given thee to my arms. 



Vain, vain regret ! Another day 
Will kiss the buds of younger flowers, 
But ne'er will evening turn away 
From love untimelier than ours. 

WEEP NOT! SIGH NOT! 

WEEP not ! tears must vainly fall, 

Though they fall like ra 
Sorrow's flood shall not recall 
Love 's dear life again. 

Vain thy tears, 
Vain thy sobs ; 
As vain heart-throbs 

Of lonely years 
Since thou Love hast slain. 

Sigh not ! As a passed wind 

Is but sought in vain, 
Sighs nor groans may not unbind 
Death's unbroken chain. 

Sighs and tears 
Nought avail, 
Nor cheeks grown pale 

In lonely years. 
Love comes not again. 

SPRING AND AUTUMN 

"THOU wilt forget me." "Love has no 

such word." 
The soft Spring wind is whispering to the 

trees. 
Among lime-blossoms have the hovering 

bees 

Those whispers heard ? 

" Or thou wilt change." Love changeth 

not," he said. 
The purple heather cloys the air with 

scent 

Of honey. O'er the moors her lover went, 
Nor turn'd his head. 

LOVE'S BLINDNESS 

THEY call her fair. I do not know : 

I never thought to look. 
Who heeds the binder's costliest show 

When be may read the book ? 

What need a list of parts to me 
When I possess the whole ? 

Who only watch her eyes to see 
The color of her soul. 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 



I may not praise her mouth, her chin, 
Her feet, her hands, her arms : 

My love lacks leisure to begin 
The schedule of her charms. 

To praise is only to compare : 
And therefore Love is blind. 

I lov'd before I was aware 
Her beauty was of kind. 

THE SILENCED SINGER 

THE nest is built, the song hath ceas'd : 
The minstrel joineth in the feast, 
So singeth not. The poet's verse, 
Crippled by Hymen's household curse, 
Follows no more its hungry quest. 
Well if Love's feathers line the nest. 

Yet blame not that beside the fire 
Love hangeth up his unstrung lyre ! 
How sing of hope when Hope hath fled, 
Joy whispering lip to lip instead ? 



Or how repeat the tuneful moan 
When the Obdurate 's all my own ? 

Love, like the lark, while soaring sings : 
Wouldst have him spread again his wings ? 
What careth he for higher skies 
Who on the heart of harvest lies, 
And finds both sun and firmament 
Clos'd in the round of his content ? 

EPICUREAN 

IN Childhood's unsuspicious hours 

The fairies crown'd my head with flowers. 

Youth came : I lay at Beauty's feet ; 
She smil'd and said my song was sweet. 

Then Age, and, Love no longer mine, 
My brows I shaded with the vine. 

With flowers and love and wine and song, 
O Death ! life hath not been too long. 



Utofccrt 

WE'LL A' GO PU' THE HEATHER 

WE 'LL a' go pu the heather, 
\ Our byres are a' to theek : 

Unless the peat-stack get a hap, 

We '11 a' be smoor'd wi' reek. 
Wi' rantin' sang awa' we '11 gang, 

While summer skies are blue, 
To fend against the winter cauld 

The heather we will pu'. 

I like to pu' the heather, 

We 're aye sae mirthf u' where 
The* sunshine creeps atour the crags, 

Like ravell'd golden hair. 
Where on the hill-tap we can stand 

Wi' joyfu' heart I trow, 
And mark ilk grassy bank and holm, 

As we the heather pu'. 

I like to pu' the heather, 

Where harmless lambkins run, 
Or lay them down beside the burn 

Like gowans in the sun ; 
Where ilka foot can tread upon 

The heath-flower wet wi' dew, 
When comes the starnie ower the hill, 

While we the heather pu\ 



I like to pu' the heather, 

For ane can gang awa', 
But no before a glint o' love 

On some ane's e'e doth fa'. 
Sweet words we dare to whisper there, 

" My hinny and my doo," 
Till maistly we wi' joy could greet 

As we the heather pu'. 

We '11 a' go pu' the heather, 

For at yon mountain fit 
There stands a broom bush by a burn, 

Where twa young folk can sit : 
He meets me there at morning's rise, 

My beautiful and true. 
My father said the word the morn 

The heather we will pu'. 

BONNIE BESSIE LEE 

BONNIE Bessie Lee had a face fu* o' 

smiles, 
And mirth round her ripe lip was aye 

dancing slee ; 
And light was the footfa', and winsome the 

wiles, 

0' the flower o' the parochin our aiii 
Bessie Lee. 



ROBERT NICOLL 



Wi' the bairns she would rin, and the school 

laddies paik, 
And o'er the broomy braes like a fairy 

would flee, 
Till auld hearts grew young again wi' love 

for her sake : 

There was life in the blithe blink o' 
Bonnie Bessie Lee. 

She grat wi' the waefu', and laugh'd wi' 

the glad, 
And light as the wind 'mang the dancers 

was she ; 
a tongue that could jeer, too, the little 

limmer had, 

Whilk keepit aye her ain side for Bonnie 
Bessie Lee. 

she whiles had a sweetheart, and some 
times had twa 

A limmer o' a lassie ! but, atween you 
and me, 

jr warm wee bit heartie she ne'er threw 
awa', 

Though mony a ane had sought it frae 
Bonnie Bessie Lee. 

hit ten years had gane since I gaz'd on 
her last, 

\ For ten years had parted my auld hame 
and me ; 

And I said to myseP, as her mither's door 
I past, 

I " Will I ever get anither kiss frae Bon 
nie Bessie Lee ? " 

But Time changes a' thing the ill-natur'd 

loon ! 
Were it ever sae rightly he '11 no let it 

be ; 
Jut I rubbit at my een, and I thought I 

would swoon, 
How the carle had come roun* about our 
ain Bessie Lee ! 

The wee laughing lassie was a gudewife 

grown auld, 
|i Twa weans at her apron and ane on her 

knee ; 
She was douce, too, and wiselike and 

wisdom 's sae cauld : 
I would rather ha'e the ither ane than 

this Bessie Lee I 



THE HERO 

MY hero is na deck'd wi' gowd, 

He has nae glittering state ; 
Renown upon a field o blood 

In war he hasna met. 
He has nae siller in his pouch, 

Nae menials at his ca' ; 
The proud o' earth frae him would turn, 

And bid him stand awa'. 

His coat is hame-spun hodden-gray, 

His shoon are clouted sair, 
His garments, maist unhero-like, 

Are a' the waur o' wear : 
His limbs are strong his shoulders broad, 

His hands were made to plough ; 
He 's rough without, but sound within ; 

His heart is bauldly true. 

He toils at e'en, he toils at morn, 

His wark is never through ; 
A coming life o' weary toil 

Is ever in his view. 
But on he trudges, keeping aye 

A stout heart to the brae, 
And proud to be an honest man 

Until his dying day. 

His hame a hame o' happiness 

And kindly love may be ; 
And monie a nameless dwelling-place 

Like his we still may see. 
His happy altar-hearth so bright 

Is ever bleezing there ; 
And cheerfu' faces round it set 

Are an unending prayer. 

The poor man in his humble hame, 

Like God, who dwells aboon, 
Makes happy hearts around him there, 

Sae joyfu' late and soon. 
His toil is sair, his toil is lang ; 

But weary nights and days, 
Hame happiness akin to his 

A hunder-fauld repays. 

Go, mock at conquerors and kings f 

What happiness give they ? 
Go, tell the painted butterflies 

To kneel them down and pray ! 
Go, stand erect in manhood's pride, 

Be what a man should be, 
Then come, and to my hero bend 

Upon the grass your knee ! 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 



a?arft Wilkg Call 



THE PEOPLE'S PETITION 

LORDS ! O rulers of the nation ! 
O softly cloth'd ! O richly fed ! 
O men of wealth and noble station 1 
Give us our daily bread. 

For you we are content to toil, 
For you our blood like rain is shed ; 
Then, lords and rulers of the soil, 
Give us our daily bread. 

Tour silken robes, with endless care, 
Still weave we ; still uncloth'd, unfed, 
We make the raiment that ye wear : 
Give us our daily bread. 

In the red forge-light do we stand, 
We early leave late seek our bed, 
Tempering the steel for your right hand : 
Give us our daily bread. 

We sow your fields, ye reap the fruit ; 
We live in misery and in dread ; 
Hear but our prayer, and we are mute : 
Give us our daily bread. 

Throughout old England's pleasant fields 
There is no spot where we may tread, 
No house to us sweet shelter yields : 
Give us our daily bread. 

Fathers are we ; we see our sons, 
We see our fair young daughters, dead ; 
Then hear us, O ye mighty ones ! 
Give us our daily bread. 

'T is vain with cold, unfeeling eye 
Ye gaze on us, uncloth'd, unfed ; 
'T is vain ye will not hear our cry, 
Nor give us daily bread. 

We turn from you, our lords by birth, 
To him who is our Lord above ; 
We all are made of the same earth, 
Are children of one love. 

Then, Father of this world of wonders, 
Judge of the living and the dead, 
Lord of the lightnings and the thunders, 
Give us our daily bread I 



SUMMER DAYS 

IN summer, when the days were long, 
We walk'd, two friends, in field and 

wood ; 

Our heart was light, our step was strong, 
And life lay round us, fair as good, 
In summer, when the days were long. 

We stray'd from morn till evening came, 
We gather'd flowers, and wove us crowns ; 
We walk'd mid poppies red as flame, 
Or sat upon the yellow downs, 
And always wish'd our life the same. 

In summer, when the days were long, 
We leap'd the hedgerow, cross'd the brook ; 
And still her voice flow'd forth in song, 
Or else she read some graceful book, 
In summer, when the days were long. 

And then we sat beneath the trees, 
With shadows lessening in the noon ; 
And in the sunlight and the breeze 
We revell'd, many a glorious June, 
While larks were singing o'er the leas. 

In summer, when the days were long, 
We pluck'd wild strawberries, ripe and 

red, 

Or feasted, with no grace but song, 
On golden nectar, snow-white bread, 
In summer, when the days were long. 

We lov'd, and yet we knew it not, 
For loving seem'd like breathing then ; 
We found a heaven in every spot ; 
Saw angels, too, in all good men, 
And dream'd of gods in grove and grot 

In summer, when the days are long, 
Alone I wander, muse alone ; 
I see her not, but that old song 
Under the fragrant wind is blown, 
In summer, when the days are long. 

Alone I wander in the wood, 
But one fair spirit hears my sighs ; 
And half I see the crimson hood, 
The radiant hair, the calm glad eyes, 
That charm'd me in life's summer mood 



WELDON EMILY BRONTE 



'53 



In summer, when the days are long, 

I love her as I lov'd of old ; 

My heart is light, my step is strong, 



For love brings back those hours of 

gold, 
In summer, when the days are long. 



Cf)arle KDrtoon 



THE POEM OF THE UNIVERSE 

THE Poem of the Universe 
Nor rhythm lias nor rhyme ; 

Some God recites the wondrous song 
A stanza at a time. 

Great deeds is he foredoom'd to do, 
With Freedom's flag uiifurl'd, 

Who hears the echo of that song 
As it goes down the world. 



Great words he is compell'd to speak 
Who understands the song ; 

He rises up like fifty men, 
Fifty good men and strong. 

A stanza for each century : 
Now heed it, all who can 1 

Who hears it, he, and only he, 
Is the elected man. 



SONG 

THE linnet in the rocky dells, 

The moor-lark in the air, 
The bee among the heather bells 

That hide my lady fair. 

wild deer browse above her breast ; 
The wild birds raise their brood ; 
Lnd they, her smiles of love caress'd, 
Have left her solitude. 

I ween that, when the grave's dark wall 

Did first her form retain, 
They thought their hearts could ne'er recall 

The light of joy again. 

They thought the tide of grief would flow 
Uncheck'd through future years ; 

But where is all their anguish now, 
And where are all their tears ? 

Well, let them fight for honor's breath, 

Or pleasure's shade pursue : 
The dweller in the land of death 

Is changed and careless too. 

And, if their eyes should watch and weep 
Till sorrow's source were dry, 

would not, in her tranquil sleep, 
Return a single sigh. 




25ronte 

Blow, west-wind, by the lonely mound, 
And murmur, summer streams t 

There is no need of other sound 
To soothe my lady's dreams. 

THE OLD STOIC 

RICHES I hold in light esteem, 
And Love I laugh to scorn ; 

And lust of fame was but a dream 
That vanish'd with the morn ; 

And if I pray, the only prayer 
That moves my lips for me 

Is, " Leave the heart that now I bear, 
And give me liberty ! " 

Yes, as my swift days near their goal, 

'T is all that I implore : 
In life and death a chainless soul, 

With courage to endure. 

WARNING AND REPLY 

IN the earth the earth thou shalt be iaid 
A gray stone standing over thee ; 

Black mould beneath thee spread, 
And black mould to cover thee. 

" Well there is rest there, 
So fast come thy prophecy 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 



The time when my sunny hair 

Shall with grass roots entwined be." 

But cold cold is that resting-place, 
Shut out from joy and liberty, 

And all who lov'd thy living face 
Will shrink from it shudderingly. 

" Not so. Here the world is chill, 
And sworn friends fall from me ; 

But there they will own me still, 
And prize my memory." 

Farewell, then, all that love, 

All that deep sympathy : 
Sleep on : Heaven laughs above, 

Earth never misses thee. 

Turf-sod and tombstone drear 

Part human company ; 
One heart breaks only here, 

But that heart was worthy thee I 

STANZAS 

OFTEN rebuk'd, yet always back returning 
To those first feelings that were born with 

me, 
And leaving busy chase of wealth and 

learning 

For idle dreams of things which cannot 
be; 

To-day, I will seek not the shadowy region ; 

Its unsustaining vastness waxes drear ; 
And visions rising, legion after legion, 

Bring the unreal world too strangely near. 

1 11 walk, but not in old heroic traces, 
And not in paths of high morality, 

And not among the half-distinguish'd faces, 
The clouded forms of long-past history. 

1 11 walk where my own nature would be 

leading : 

It vexes me to choose another guide : 
Where the gray flocks in ferny glens are 

feeding ; 

Where the wild wind blows on the moun 
tain side. 



What have those lonely mountains worth 

revealing ? 
More glory and more grief than I can 

tell: 
The earth that wakes one human heart to 

feeling 

Can centre both the worlds of Heaven 
and Hell. 

HER LAST LINES 

No coward soul is mine, 
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled 

sphere : 

I see Heaven's glories shine, 
And faith shines equal, arming me from 
fear. 

O God within my breast, 
Almighty, ever-present Deity ! 

Life that in me has rest, 
As I undying Life have power in thee ! 

Vain are the thousand creeds 
That move men's hearts : unutterably vain ; 

Worthless as wither'd weeds, 
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main, 

To waken doubt in one 
Holding so fast by thine infinity ; 

So surely anchor'd on 
The steadfast rock of immortality. 

With wide-embracing love 
Thy spirit animates eternal years, 

Pervades and broods above, 
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and 
rears. 

Though earth and man were gone, 
And suns and universes ceas'd to be, 

And Thou were left alone, 
Every existence would exist in Thee. 

There is not room for Death, 
Nor atom that his might could render 

void : 

Thou Thou art Being and Breath, 
And what Thou art may never be de- 
stroy'd. 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 



'55 



3Htm 



(Slctocg) 



("GEORGE ELIOT") 



O MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR IN 
VISIBLE" 

Longum illud.teinpus, quum non ero, magis me movet, 
juu hoc exiguum. Cicero, ad A:t , xii. 18. 

MAY I join the choir invisible 
those immortal dead who live again 
minds made better by their presence : 

live 

In pulses stirr'd to generosity, 
In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn 
For miserable aims that end with self, 
In thoughts sublime that pierce the night 

like stars, 
with their mild persistence urge man's 

search 
Co vaster issues. 

So to live is heaven : 
To make undying music in the world, 
jathing as beauteous order that controls 
r ith growing sway the growing life of 

man. 

ffio we inherit that sweet purity 
For which we struggled, fail'd, and ago- 

niz'd 

With widening retrospect that bred despair. 
Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued, 
A vicious parent shaming still its child, 
Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolv'd ; 
Its discords, quench'd by meeting har 
monies, 

Die in the large and charitable air. 
And all our rarer, better, truer self, 
That sobb'd religiously in yearning song, 
That watch'd to ease the burthen of the 

world, 

Laboriously tracing what must be, 
And what may yet be better, saw within 
A worthier image for the sanctuary, 
And shap'd it forth before the multitude, 
Divinely human, raising worship so 
To higher reverence more mix'd with 

love, 
That better self shall live till human 

Time 

Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky 
Be gather'd like a scroll within the tomb 
Unread forever. 

This is life to come, 

Which martyr'd men have made more 
glorious 



For us who strive to follow. May I reach 
That purest heaven, be to other soul* 
The cup of strength in some great agony, 
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, 
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty, 
Be the sweet presence of a good diffus'd, 
And in diffusion ever more intense ! 
So shall I join the choir invisible 
Whose music is the gladness of the world. 



SONGS FROM "THE SPANISH 
GYPSY " 

THE DARK 

SHOULD I long that dark were fair ? 

Say, O song, 

Lacks my love aught, that I should long ? 

Dark the night, with breath all flow'rs, 
And tender broken voice that fills 
With ravishment the listening hours : 
Whisperings, wooings, 
Liquid ripples and soft ring-dove cooings 
In low-ton'd rhythm that love's aching 

stills. 

Dark the night, 
Yet is she bright, 

For in her dark she brings the mystic star, 
Trembling yet strong, as is the voice of love, 
From some unknown afar. 
O radiant Dark ! O darkly-fostered ray ! 
Thou hast a joy too deep for shallow Dty. 

SONG OF THE zfNCALI 

ALL things journey : sun and moon, 
Morning, noon, and afternoon, 

Night and all her stars : 
Twixt the east and western bars 

Round they journey, 
Come and go. 

We go with them ! 
For to roam and ever roam 
Is the Zmcali's loved home. 

Earth is good, the hillside breaks 
By the ashen roots and wakes 

Hungry nostrils glad ; 
Then we run till we are mad, 

lake the horses, 



156 



POETS OF THE NEW DAY 



And we cry, 
None shall catch us ! 
Swift winds wing us we are free 
Drink the air we Zfncali 1 

Falls the snow : the pine-branch split, 
Call the fire out, see it flit, 

Through the dry leaves run, 
Spread and glow, and make a sun 

In the dark tent : 
O warm dark ! 

Warm as conies ! 



Strong fire loves us, we are warm ! 
Who the Zfncali shall harm ? 

Onward journey : fires are spent ; 
Sunward, sunward ! lift the tent, 

Run before the rain, 
Through the pass, along the plain. 

Hurry, hurry, 
Lift us, wind ! 

Like the horses. 
For to roam and ever roam 
Is the Zfncali's loved home. 



EARTH'S BURDENS 

WHY grpaning so, thou solid earth, 
Though sprightly summer cheers ? 

Or is thine old heart dead to mirth ? 
Or art thou bow'd by years ? 

" Nor am I cold to summer's prime, 
Nor knows my heart decay ; 

Nor am I bow'd by countless time, 
Thou atom of a day ! 

" I lov'd to list when tree and tide 

Their gentle music made, 
And lightly on my sunny side 

To feel the plough and spade. 

" I lov'd to hold my liquid way 
Through floods of living light ; 

To kiss the sun's bright hand by day, 
And count the stars by night. 

** I lov'd to hear the children's glee, 

Around the cottage door, 
And peasant's song right merrily 

The glebe come ringing o'er. 



" But man upon my back has roll'd 

Such heavy loads of stone, 
I scarce can grow the harvest gold : 

'Tis therefore that I groan. 

" And when the evening dew sinks mild 

Upon my quiet breast, 
I feel the tear of the houseless child 

Break burning on my rest. 

" Oh ! where are all the hallow'd sweets, 

The harmless joys I gave ? 
The pavement of your sordid streets 

Are stones on Virtue's grave. 

" And thick and fast as autumn leaves 

My children drop away, 
A gathering of unripen'd sheaves 

By premature decay. 

" Gaunt misery holds the cottage door, 

And olden honor 's flown, 
And slaves are slavish more and more : 

'T is therefore that I groan." 



THE WRECK 

ITS masts of might, its sails so free, 
Had borne the scatheless keel 
Through many a day of darken'd sea, 



And many a storm of steel $ 

When all the winds were calm, it met 

(With home-returning prore) 

With the lull 

Of the waves 
On a low lee shore. 



RUSKIN JONES 



'57 



The crest of the conqueror 
On many a brow was bright ; 
The dew of many an exile's eye 
Had dimm'd the dancing sight ; 
And for love and for victory 
One welcome was in store. 

In the lull 

Of the waves 
On a low lee shore. 

The voices ofjthe night are mute 
Beneath the moon's eclipse ; 
The silence of the fitful flute 
Is on the dying lips. 
The silence of my lonely heart 



Is kept forevermore 
In the lull 
Of the waves 
On a low lee shore. 

TRUST THOU THY LOVE 

TRUST thou thy Love : if she be proud, is 

she not sweet ? 
Trust thou thy Love : if she be mute, is 

she not pure ? 
Lay thou thy soul full in her hands, low at 

her feet ; 

Fail, Sun and Breath! yet, for thy 
peace, she shall endure. 



SONG OF THE KINGS OF 
GOLD 

OURS all are marble halls, 
Amid untrodden groves 
Where music ever calls, 
Where faintest perfume roves ; 
And thousands toiling moan, 
That gorgeous robes may fold 
The haughty forms alone 
Of us the Kings of Gold. 

(Chorus.) 

We cannot count our slaves, 
Nothing bounds our sway, 
Our will destroys and saves, 
We let, we create, we slay. 
Ha ! ha ! who are Gods ? 

Purple, and crimson, and blue, 
Jewels, and silks, and pearl, 
All splendors of form and hue, 
Our charm'd existence furl ; 
When dared shadow dim 
The glow in our winecups roll'd ? 
When droop'd the banquet-hymn 
Rais'd for the Kings of Gold ? 
(Chorus.) 

The earth, the earth, is ours I 
Its corn, its fruits, its wine, 
Its sun, its rain, its flowers, 
Ours, all, all i cannot shine 



One sunlight ray, but where 
Our mighty titles hold ; 
Wherever life is, there 
Possess the Kings of Gold. 
(Chorus.) 

And all on earth that lives, 
Woman, and man, and child, 
Us trembling homage gives ; 
Aye trampled, sport-defil'd, 
None dareth raise one frown, 
Or slightest questioning hold ; 
Our scorn but strikes them down 
To adore the Kings of Gold. 
(Chorus.) 



In a glorious sea of hate, 

Eternal rocks we stand ; 

Our joy is our lonely state, 

And our trust, our own right hand ; 

We frown, and nations shrink ; 

They curse, but our swords are old ; 

And the wine of their rage deep drink 

The dauntless Kings of Gold. 

(Chorus.) 

We cannot count our slaves, 
Nothing bounds our sway, 
Our will destroys and saves, 
We let, we create, we slay. 
Ha! ha! who are Gods? 



158 



THE RHAPSODISTS 



THE FACE 

THESE dreary hours of hopeless gloom 
Are all of life I fain would know ; 
I would but feel my life consume, 
While bring they back mine ancient woe ; 
For, midst the clouds of grief and shame 
That crowd around, one face I see ; 
It is the face I dare not name, 
The face none ever name to me. 

I saw it first when in the dance 
Borne, like a falcon, down the hall, 
He stay'd to cure some rude mischance 
My girlish deeds had caused to fall ; 
He sinil'd, he danced with me, he made 
A thousand ways to soothe my pain ; 
And sleeplessly all night I pray'd 
That I might see that smile again. 

I saw it next, a thousand times ; 
And every time its kind smile near'd ; 
Oh ! twice ten thousand glorious chimes 
My heart rang out, when he appear'd ; 



What was I then, that others' thought 
Could alter so my thought of him; 
That I could be by others taught 
His image from my heart to dim ! 

I saw it last, when black and white 
Shadows went struggling o'er it wild ; 
When he regain'd my long-lost sight, 
And I with cold obeisance smil'd ; 
I did not see it fade from life ; 
My letters o'er his heart they found ; 
They told me in death's last hard strife 
His dying hands around them wound. 

Although my scorn that face did maim, 
Even when its love would not depart ; 
Although my laughter smote its shame 
And drave it swording through his heart ; 
Although its death-gloom grasps my brain 
With crushing unrefus'd despair ; 
That I may dream that face again 
God still must find alone my prayer. 



THE RHAPSODISTS 



FROM "FESTUS" 

YOUTH, LOVE, AND DEATH 

Lucifer. And we might trust these youths 

and maidens fair, 
The world was made for nothing but love, 

love. 

Now I think it was made most to be burn'd. 
Festus. The night is glooming on us. 

It is the hour 

When lovers will speak lowly, for the sake 
Of being nigh each other ; and when love 
Shoots up the eye, like morning on the east, 
Making amends for the long northern night 
They pass'd, ere either knew the other 

lov'd ; 
The hour of hearts ! Say gray-beards what 

they please, 

The heart of age is like an emptied wine- 
cup ; 



Its life lies in a heel-tap : how can age 

judge ? 
'T were a waste of time to ask how they 

wasted theirs ; 
But while the blood is bright, breath sweet, 

skin smooth, 

And limbs all made to minister delight ; 
Ere yet we have shed our locks, like trees 1 

their leaves, 

And we stand staring bare into the air ; 
He is a fool who is not for love and beauty 
It is I, the young, to the young speak. I 

am of them, 
And always shall be. What are years to 

me ? 
You traitor years, that fang the hands ye 

have lick'd, 
Vicelike ; henceforth your venom-sacs art 

gone. 
I have conquer'd. Ye shall perish : yea, 

shall fall 






PHILIP JAMES BAILEY 



'59 



Like birdlets beaten by some resistless 

storm 
'Gainst a dead wall, dead. I pity ye, that 

such 
Mean things should have rais'd in man or 

hope or fear ; 
Those Titans of the heart that fight at 

heaven, 
And sleep, by fits, on fire, whose slightest 

stir's 
An earthquake. I am bound and bless'd 

to youth. 

None but the brave and beautiful can love. 
Oh give me to the young, the fair, the 

free, 
The brave, who would breast a rushing, 

burning world 
Which came between him and his heart's 

delight. 
Mad must I be, and what 's the world ? 

Like mad 
For itself. And I to myself am all things, 

too. 
If my heart thunder'd would the world 

rock? Well, 
Then let the mad world fight its shadow 

down. 
Soon there may be nor sun nor world nor 

shadow. 
But thou, my blood, my bright red running 

soul, 

Rejoice thou like a river in thy rapids. 
Rejoice, thou wilt never pale with age, nor 

thin ; 

But in thy full dark beauty, vein by vein 
Serpent-wise, me encircling, shalt to the end 
Throb, bubble, sparkle, laugh, and leap' 

along. 
Make merry, heart, while the holidays shall 

last. 
Better than daily dwine, break sharp with 

life ; 
Like a stag, suustruck, top thy bounds and 

die. 
Heart, I could tear thee out, thou fool, thou 

fool, 

And strip thee into shreds upon the wind. 
What have I done that thou shouldst maze 

me thus ? 
Lucifer. Let us away ; we have had 

enough of hearts. 
Festm. Oh for the young heart like a 

fountain playing, 
linging its bright fresh feelings up to the 

skies 



It loves and strives to reach ; strives, lores 

in vain. 

It is of earth, and never meant for IIIUPS^ 
Let us love both and die. Tin- .sphinx-like 

heart 
Loathes life the moment that life's riddle 

is read. 

The knot of our existence solv'd, all thing* 
Loose-ended lie, and useless. Life is had, 
And lo ! we sigh, and say, can this be all ? 
It is not what we thought ; it is very well, 
But we want something more. There is 

but death. 
And when we have said and seen, done, had, 

enjoy'd 
And suffer'd, maybe, all we have wish'd or 

fear'd, 

From fame to ruin, and from love to loath- 
ing. 
There can come but one more change 

try it death. 

Oh t it is great to feel that nought of earth, 
Hope, love, nor dread, nor care for what 's 

to come, 

Can check the royal lavishment of life ; 
But, like a streamer strown upon the wind, 
We fling our souls to fate and to the future. 
For to die young is youth's divinest gift ; 
To pass from one world fresh into another, 
Ere change hath lost the charm of soft 

regret, 

And feel the immortal impulse from within 
Which makes the coming life cry alway, 

on I 
And follow it while strong, is heaven's last 

mercy. 

There is a fire-fly in the south, but shines 
When on the wing. So is't with mind. 

When once 
We rest, we darken. On ! saith God to the 

soul, 

As unto the earth for ever. On it goes, 
A rejoicing native of the infinite, 
As is a bird, of air ; an orb, of heaven. 

THE POET 

Festus. Thanks, thanks! With the 
Muse is always love and light, 

And self-sworn loyalty to truth. For know, 

Poets are all who love, who feel, great 
truths, 

And tell them : and the truth of truths 
love. 

There was a time oh, I remember well I 



i6o 



THE RHAPSODISTS 



When, like a sea-shell with its sea-born 

strain, 

My soul aye rang with music of the lyre, 
And my heart shed its lore as leaves their 

dew 

A honey dew, and throve on what it shed. 
All things I lov'd ; but song I lov'd in 

chief. 

Imagination is the air of mind, 
Judgment its earth and memory its main, 
Passion its fire. I was at home in heaven. 
Swiftlike, I liv'd above ; once touching 

earth, 
The meanest thing might master me : long 

wings 
But baffled. Still and still I harp'd on 

song. 

Oh ! to create within the mind is bliss, 
And shaping forth the lofty thought, or 

lovely, 
We seek not, need not heaven : and when 

the thought, 
Cloudy and shapeless, first forms on the 

mind, 

Slow darkening into some gigantic make, 
How the heart shakes with pride and fear, 

as heaven 
Quakes under its own thunder ; or as 

might, 

Of old, the mortal mother of a god, 
When first she saw him lessening up the 

skies. 

And I began the toil divine of verse, 
Which, like a burning bush, doth guest a 

god. 
But this was only wing-flapping not 

flight ; 

The pawing of the courser ere he win ; 
Till by degrees, from wrestling with my 

soul, 
I gather'd strength to keep the fleet 

thoughts fast, 
&nd made them bless me. Yes, there was 

a time 
When tomes of ancient song held eye and 

heart ; 
Were the sole lore I reck'd of : the great 

bards 
Of Greece, of Rome, and mine own master 

land, 

And they who in the holy book are death 
less ; 

Men who have vulgariz'd sublimity, 
And bought up truth for the nations ; held 

it whole ; 



Men who have forged gods utter'd 

made them pass : 

Sons of the sons of God, who in olden days 
Did leave their passionless heaven for earth 

and woman, 

Brought an immortal to a mortal breast, 
And, rainbowlike the sweet earth clasping,, 

left 

A bright precipitate of soul, which lives 
Ever, and through the lines of sullen men, 
The dumb array of ages, speaks for all ; 
Flashing by fits, like fire from an enemy's 

front ; 
Whose thoughts, like bars of sunshine in 

shut rooms, 
Mid gloom, all glory, win the world to 

light; 
Who make their very follies like their 

souls, 
And like the young moon with a ragged 

edge, 

Still in their imperfection beautiful ; 
Whose weaknesses are lovely as their 

strengths, 
Like the white nebulous matter between 

stars, 

Which, if not light, at least is likest light ; 
Men whom we build our love round like an 

arch 

Of triumph, as they pass us on their way 
To glory, and to immortality ; 
Men whose great thoughts possess us like 

a passion, 
Through every limb and the whole heart ; 

whose words 
Haunt us, as eagles haunt the mountain 

air ; 
Whose thoughts command all coming times 

and minds, 

As from a tower, a warden fix them 
selves 

Deep in the heart as meteor stones in earth, 
Dropp'd from some higher sphere : the 

words of gods, 
And fragments of the undeem'd tongues of 

heaven ; 

Men who walk up to fame as to a friend, 
Or their own house, which from the wrong 
ful heir 
They have wrested, from the world's hard 

hand and gripe ; 
Men who, like death, all bone but all un* 

arm'd, 
Have ta'en the giant world by the throaty 

and thrown him, 



PHILIP JAMES BAILEY 



161 



And made him swear to maintain their 

name and fame 

At peril of his life ; who shed great thoughts 
As easily as an oak looseneth its golden 

leaves 

In a kindly largesse to the soil it grew on ; 
Whose names are ever on the world's broad 

tongue, 

Like sound upon the falling of a force ; 
Whose words, if wing'd, are with angels' 

wings ; 

Who play upon the heart as on a harp, 
And make our eyes bright as we speak of 

them ; 
Whose hearts have a look southwards, and 

are open 
To the whole noon of nature ; these I have 

wak'd, 

And wept o'er, night by night ; oft ponder 
ing thus : 
Homer is gone : and where is Jove ? and 

where 

The rival cities seven ? His song outlives 
Time, tower, and god all that then was, 

save heaven. 

HELEN'S SONG 

The rose is weeping for her love, 

The nightingale ; 
And he is flying fast above, 

To her he will not fail. 
Already golden eve appears ; 

He wings his way along ; 
Ah ! look, he comes to kiss her tears, 

And soothe her with his song. 

The moon in pearly light may steep 

The still blue air ; 
The rose hath ceas'd to droop and weep, 

For lo ! her love is there ; 
He sings to her, and o'er the trees 

She hears his sweet notes swim ; 
The world may weary ; she but sees 

Her love, and hears but him. 

LUCIFER AND ELISSA 

Elissa. Nigh one year ago, 

watch'd that large bright star, much 

where 't is now : 

.e hath not touch'd its everlasting light 
ning, 

Nor diinm'd the glorious glances of its eye ; 
Nor passion clouded it, nor any star 



Eclips'd ; it is the leader still of heaven. 
And I who lov'd it then can love it now ; 
But am not what I was, in one degree. 
Calm star ! who was it naiu'd thee Lucifer, 
From him who drew the third of heaven 

down with him ? 

Oh ! it was but the tradition of thy beaut} I 
For if the sun hath one part, and the moon 

one, 
Thou hast the third part of the host of 

heaven 
Which is its power which power is but 

its beauty t 
Lucifer. It was no tradition, lady, but 

of truth ! 
Elissa. I thought we parted last to 

meet no more. 

Lucifer. It was so, lady ; but it is not BO. 
Elissa. Am I to leave, or thou, then ? 
Lucifer. Neither, yet. 

Elissa. And who art thou that I should 

fear and serve ? 
Lucifer. I am the morning and the 

evening star, 
The star thou lovedst ; thy lover too ; as 

once 
I told thee incredulous ; star and spirit I 

am ; 

A power, an ill which doth outbalance being. 
Behold life's tyrant evil, peer of good, 
The great infortune of the universe. 
Am I not more than mortal in my form ? 
Millions of years have circled round my 

brow, 
Like worlds upon their centres, still I 

live, 

And age but presses with a halo's weight. 
This single arm hath dash'd the light of 

heaven ; 
This one hand dragg'd the angels from 

their thrones : 

Am I not worthy to have lov'd thee, lady ? 
Thou mortal model of all lieavenliness I 
Yet all these spoils have I abandon'd, 

cower'd 
My powers, my course becalm'd, and 

stoop'd from the high 
Destruction of the skies for thee, and him 
Who loving thee is with thee lost, both lost 
Thou hast but serv'd the purpose ot the 

fiend ; 

Art but the gilded vessel of selfish sin 
Whose poison hath drunken made a soul to 

death : 
Thou, useless now. I come to bid thee die. 



162 



THE RHAPSODISTS 



Elissa. Wicked, impure, tormentor of 
the world, 

I knew thee not. Yet doubt not thou it was 

Who darkenedst for a moment with base 
aim 

God to evade, and shun in this world, man, 

Love's heart ; with selfish end alone re 
deeming 

Me from the evil, the death-fright. Take, 
nathless, 

One human soul's forgiveness, such the sum 

Of thanks I feel for heaven's great grace 
that thou 

From the overflowings of love's cup mayst 
quench 

Thy breast's broad burning desert, and fer 
tilize 

Aught may be in it, that boasts one root of 

good. 
Lucifer. It is doubtless sad to feel one 

day our last. 

Elissa. I knew, forewarn'd, I was dy 
ing. God is good. 

The heavens grow darker as they purer 
grow, 

And both, as we approach them ; so near 
death 

The soul grows darker and diviner hourly. 

Could I love less, I should be happier now. 

But always 't is to that mad extreme, 
death 

Alone appears the fitting end to bliss 

Like that my spirit presseth for. 

Lucifer. ' Thy death 

Gentle shall be as e'er hath been thy life. 

I '11 hurt thee not, for once upon this breast, 

Fell, like a snowflake on a fever'd lip, 

Thy love. Thy soul shall, dreamlike, pass 
from thee. 

One instant, and thou wakest in heaven 

for aye. 

Elissa. Lost, say'st thou in one breath, 
and sav'd in heaven. 



I ever thought thee to be more than mor 
tal, 
And since thus mighty, grant me and 

thou mayst 
This one, this only boon, as friend to 

friend 

Bring him I love, one moment ere I die ; 
Life, love, all his. . . . 

Lucifer. Cease ! 

As a wind-flaw, darting from some rifted 

cloud, 

Seizes upon a water-patch mid main, 
And into white wrath worries it, so my 

mind 

This petty controversy distracts. He comes, 

I say, but never shalt thou view him, living. 

Elissa. But I will, will see him, and 

while I am alive. 
I hear him. He is come. 

Lucifer. The ends of things 

Are urgent. Still, to this mortuary deed 
Reluctant, fix I death's black seal. He 's 

here ! 
Elissa. I hear him ; he is come ; it is 

he ; it is he ! 
Lucifer. Die graciously, as ever thou 

hast liv'd ; 

Die, thou shalt never look upon him again. 
Elissa. My love ! haste, Festus ! I am 

dying. 

Lucifer. Dead ! 

As ocean racing fast and fierce to reach 
Some headland, ere the moon with madden 
ing ray 

Forestall him, and rebellious tides excite 
To vain strife, nor of the innocent skiff that 

thwarts 
His path, aught heeds, but with dispiteous 

foam 
Wrecks deathful, I, made hasty by time's 

end 

Impending, thus fill up fate's tragic form. 
A word could kill her. See, she hath gone 

to heaven. 



SDora oBrccntocil 



A SONG OF FAREWELL 

THE Spring will come again, dear friends, 
The swallow o'er the sea ; 
The bud will hang upon the bough, 
The blossom on the tree ; 



And many a pleasant sound will rise to 

greet her on her way, 
The voice of bird, and leaf, and stream, 

and warm winds in their play ; 
Ah ! sweet the airs that round her breathe I 

and bountiful is she, 



DORA GREENWELL MACDONALD 



63 



She bringeth all the things that fresh, and 

sweet, and hopeful be ; 
She scatters promise on the earth with 

open hand and free, 
But not for me, my friends, 
But not for me ! 

Summer will come again, dear friends, 

Low murmurs of the bee 

Will rise through the long sunny day 

Above the flowery lea ; 

And deep the dreamy woods will own the 
slumbrous spell she weaves, 

And send a greeting, mix'd with sighs, 
through all their quivering leaves. 

Oh, precious are her glowing gifts ! and 
plenteous is she, 

She bringeth all the lovely things that 
bright and fragrant be, 

She scatters fulness on the Earth with lav 
ish hand and free, 
But not for me, my friends, 
But not for me ! 

Autumn will come again, dear friends, 
His spirit-touch shall be 
With gold upon the harvest-field, 
W T ith crimson on the tree ; 



He passeth o'er the silent wood*, they 
wither at big breath, 

Slow fading in a still decay, a change that 
is not Death. 

Oh ! rich and liberal, and wise, and provi 
dent is he ! 

He taketh to his garner-house the things 
that ripen'd be, 

He gathereth his store from Earth, and 

silently 

And he will gather me, my friends, 
He will gather me I 



TO CHRISTINA ROSSETTI 

THOU hast fill'd me a golden cup 
With a drink divine that glows, 
With the bloom that is flowing up 
From the heart of the folded rose. 
The grapes in their amber glow, 
And the strength of the blood-red wine, 
All mingle and change and flow 
In this golden cup of thine, 
With the scent of the curling vine, 
With the balm of the rose's breath, 
For the voice of love is thine, 
And thine is the Song of Death ! 



LIGHT 

THOU art the joy of age : 
Thy sun is dear when long the shadow 

falls. 

Forth to its friendliness the old man crawls, 
And, like the bird hung out in his poor 

cage 

To gather song from radiance, in his chair 
Sits by the door ; and sitteth there 
His soul within him, like a child that lies 
Half dreaming, with half-open eyes, 
At close of a long afternoon in summer 
High ruins round him, ancient ruins, where 
The raven is almost the only comer ; 
Half dreams, half broods, in wonderment 
At thy celestial descent, 
Through rifted loops alighting on the gold 
That waves its bloom in many an airy rent : 
So dreams the old man's soul, that is not 

old, 
But sleepy 'mid the ruins that enfold. 



What soul-like changes, evanescent 

moods, 

Upon the face of the still passive earth, 
Its hills, and fields, and woods, 
Thou with thy seasons and thy hours art 

ever calling forth ! 
Even like a lord of music bent 
Over his instrument, 
Who gives to tears and smiles an equal 

birth! 

When clear as holiness the morning ray 
Casts the rock's dewy darkness at its 

feet, 
Mottling with shadows all the mountain 

gray; 

When, at the hour of sovereign noon, . 
Infinite silent cataracts sheet 
Shadowless through the air of thunder- 
breeding June ; 

And when a yellower glory slanting pastes 
Twixt longer shadows o'er the meadow 

grasses ; 



i6 4 



THE RHAPSODISTS 



When now the moon lifts up her shining 

shield, 

High on the peak of a cloud-hill reveal'd ; 
Now crescent, low, wandering sun-dazed 

away, 

Unconscious of her own star-mingled ray, 
Her still face seeming more to think than 

see, 
Makes the pale world lie dreaming dreams 

of thee ! 

No mood of mind, no melody of soul, 
But lies within thy silent soft control. 

Of operative single power, 

And simple unity the one emblem, 

Yet all the colors that our passionate eyes 
devour, 

In rainbow, moonbow, or in opal gem, 

Are the melodious descant of divided thee. 

Lo thee in yellow sands ! lo thee 

In the blue air and sea ! 

In the green corn, with scarlet poppies lit, 

Thy half souls parted, patient thou dost sit. 

Lo thee in speechless glories of the west ! 

Lo thee in dewdrop's tiny breast ! 

Thee on the vast white cloud that floats 
away, 

Bearing upon its skirt a brown moon-ray ! 

Regent of color, thou dost fling 

Thy overflowing skill on everything ! 

The thousand hues and shades upon the 
flowers 

Are all the pastime of thy leisure hours ; 

And all the jewelled ores in mines that hid 
den be 

Are dead till touch'd by thee. L 

WORLD AND SOUL 

THIS infant world has taken long to make ! 
Nor hast Thou done the making of it yet, 
But wilt be working on when death has set 
A new mound in some church-yard for my 

sake. 

On flow the centuries without a break ; 
Uprise the mountains, ages without let ; 
The lichens suck the rock's breast food 

they get : 
Years more than past, the young earth yet 

will take. 

But in the dumbness of the rolling time, 
No veil of silence shall encompass me : 
Thou wilt not once forget and let me be ; 
Rather wouldstThou some old chaotic prime 
Invade, and, with a tenderness sublime, 
Unfold a world, that I, thy child, might see. 



BABY 

WHERE did you come from, baby dear ? 
Out of the everywhere into the here. 

Where did you get those eyes so blue ? 
Out of the sky as I came through. 



What makes the light in them sparkle and 

spin? 
Some of the starry spikes left in. 



Where did you get that little tear ? 
I found it waiting when I got here. 

What makes your forehead so smooth and 

high? 
A soft hand strok'd it as I went by. 

What makes your cheek like a warm white 

rose ? 
I saw something better than any one 

knows. 

Whence that three-corner'd smile of bliss ? 
Three angels gave me at once a kiss. 

Where did you get this pearly Bar ? 
God spoke, and it came out to hear. 

Where did you get those arms and hands ? 
Love made itself into bonds and bands. 

Feet, whence did you come, you darling 

things ? 
From the same box as the cherubs' wings. 

How did they all just come to be you ? 
God thought about me, and so I grew. 

But how did you come to us, you dear ? 
God thought about you, and so I aw 
here. 

SONG 

I DREAM'D that I woke from a dream, 
And the house was full of light ; 
At the window two angel Sorrows 
Held back the curtains of night. 

The door was wide, and the house 
Was full of the morning wind ; 
At the door two armed warders 
Stood silent, with faces blind. 



MACDONALD MASSEY 



'6$ 



I ran to the open door, 
For the wind of the world was sweet ; 
The warders with crossing weapons 
Turn'd back my issuing feet. 

I ran to the shining windows 
Inere the winged Sorrows stood ; 



Silent they held the curtain*. 

And the light fell through in a flood. 

I clomb to the highest window 
Ah ! there, with shadow'd brow, 
Stood one lonely radiant Sorrow, 
And that, my love, was thou. 



THE DESERTER FROM THE 
CAUSE 

HE is gone : better so. We should know 

who stand under 
Our banner : let none but the trusty 

remain ! 
For there's stern work at hand, and the 

time comes shall sunder 
The shell from the pearl, and the chaff 

fiom. the grain. 
And the heart that through danger and 

death will be dutiful, 
Soul that with Cranmer in fire would 

shake hands, 
With a life like a palace-home built for 

the beautiful, 
Freedom of all her beloved demands. 

He is gone from us ! Yet shall we march 

on victorious, 
Hearts burning like beacons eyes fix'd 

on the goal ! 
And if we fall fighting, we fall like the 

glorious, 
With face to the stars, and all heaven 

in the soul. 
And aye for the brave stir of battle we 11 

barter 
The sword of life sheath'd in the peace 

of the grave ; 

And better the fieriest fete of the martyr, 
Than live like the coward, and die like 
the slave ! 

CHRISTIE'S PORTRAIT 

YOUR tiny picture makes me yearn ; 

We are so far apart ! 
My darling, I can only turn 

And kiss you in my heart. 
A thousand tender thoughts a-wing 

Swarm in a summer clime, 



And hover round it murmuring 
Like bees at honey-time. 

Upon a little girl I look 

Whose pureness makes me Bad ; 
I read as in a holy book, 

I grow in secret glad. 
It seems my darling conies to me 

With something I have lost 
Over life's toss'd and troubled sea, 

On some celestial coast. 

I think of her when spirit-bow'd ; 

A glory fills the place ! 
Like sudden light on swords, the proud 

Smile flashes in my face : 
And others see, in passing by, 

But cannot understand 
The vision shining in mine eye, 

My strength of heart and hand. 

That grave content and touching grace 

Bring tears into mine eyes ; 
She makes my heart a holy place 

Where hymns and incense rise. 
Such calm her gentle spirit brings 

As, smiling overhead, 
White-statued saints with peaceful wings 

Shadow the sleeping dead. 

Our Christie is no rosy Grace 

With beauty all may see, 
But I have never felt a face 

Grow half so dear to me. 
No curling hair about her brows, 

Like many merry girls ; 
Well, straighter to my heart it goef, 

And round it curls and curls. 

Meek as the wood anemone glints 

To see if heaven be blue, 
Is my pale flower with her sweet tint* 

Of heaven shining through. 



i66 



THE RHAPSODISTS 



She will be poor and never fret, 

Sleep sound and lowly lie ; 
Will live her quiet life, and let 

The great world-storm go by. 

Dear love ! God keep her in his grasp, 

Meek maiden, or brave wife, 
Till his good angels softly clasp 

Her closed book of life ! 
And this fair picture of the sun, 

With birthday blessings given, 
Shall fade before a glorious one 

Taken of her in heaven. 

HIS BANNER OVER ME 

SURROUNDED by unnumber'd foes, 
4 Against my soul the battle goes ! 



Yet though I weary, sore distrest, 
I know that I shall reach my rest : 

I lift rny tearful eyes above, 

His banner over me is love. 

Its sword my spirit will not yield, 
Though flesh may faint upon the field ; 
He waves before my fading sight 
The branch of palm, the crown of light 5 

I lift my brightening eyes above, 

His banner over me is love. 

My cloud of battle-dust may dim, 
His veil of splendor curtain him ! 
And in the midnight of my fear 
I may not feel him standing near ; 

But, as I lift mine eyes above, 

His banner over me is love. 



FROM "A LIFE-DRAMA" 

FORERUNNERS 

Walter. I have a strain of a departed 

bard; 

One who was born too late into this world. 
A mighty day was past, and he saw nought 
But ebbing sunset and the rising stars, 
Still o'er him rose those melancholy stars ! 
Unknown his childhood, save that he was 

born 
'Mong woodland waters full of silver 

breaks ; 

I was to him but Labrador to Ind ; 
His pearls were plentier than my pebble 
stones. 
He was the sun, I was that squab the 

earth, 

And bask'd me in his light until he drew 
Flowers from my barren sides. Oh ! he 

was rich, 

And I rejoiced upon his shore of pearls, 
A weak enamor'd sea. Once he did say, 
" My Friend ! a Poet must ere long arise, 
And with a regal song sun-crown this age, 
As a saint's head is with a halo crown'd ; 
One, who shall hallow Poetry to God 
And to its own high use, for Poetry is 
The grandest chariot wherein king-thoughts 
ride ; 



One, who shall fervent grasp the sword ot 

song, 
As a stern swordsman grasps his keenest 

blade, 

To find the quickest passage to the heart. 
A mighty Poet, whom this age shall choose 
To be its spokesman to all coming times. 
In the ripe full-blown season of his soul, 
He shall go forward in his spirit's strength, 
And grapple with the questions of all time, 
And wring from them their meanings. As 

King Saul 
Call'd up the buried prophet from his 

grave 

To speak his doom, so shall this Poet-king 
Call up the dead Past from its awful grave 
To tell him of our future. As the air 
Doth sphere the world, so shall his heart 

of love 

Loving mankind, not peoples. As the lake 
Reflects the flower, tree, rock, and bending 

heaven, 

Shall he reflect our great humanity ; 
And as the young Spring breathes with liv 
ing breath 

On a dead branch, till it sprouts fragrantly 
Green leaves and sunny flowers, shall he 

breathe life 
Through every theme he touch, making all 

Beauty 

And Poetry for ever like the stars." 
His words set me on fire ; I cried aloud, 



AI.KXANDER SMITH 



167 



" Gods ! what a portion to forerun this 

Soul 1 " 
He grasp'd my hand, I look'd upon his 

face, 
A thought struck all the blood into his 

cheeks, 
Like a strong buffet. His great flashing 

eyes 
Buru'd on mine own. He said, " A grim 

old king, 

Whose blood leap'd madly when the trum 
pets bray'd 

To joyous battle 'mid a storm of steeds, 
Won a rich kingdom on a battle-day ; 
But in the sunset he was ebbing fast, 
Ring'd by his weeping lords. His left 

hand held 
His white steed, to the belly splash' d with 

blood, 

That seem'd to mourn him with its droop 
ing head ; 
His right, his broken brand ; and in his 

ear 

His old victorious banners flap the winds. 
He called his faithful herald to his side, 
Go ! tell the dead I come ! ' With a proud 

smile, 

The warrior with a stab let out his soul, 
Which fled and shriek'd through all the 

other world, 
' Ye dead ! My master comes ! * And 

there was pause 
Till the great shade should enter. Like 

that herald, . 

Walter, I 'd rush across this waiting world 
And cry, ' He comes 1 " Lady, wilt hear 

the song ? [Sings. 

A MINOR POET 

He sat one winter 'neath a linden tree 

In my bare orchard ; "See, my friend," 

he said, 
" The stars among the branches hang like 

fruit, 
), hopes were thick within me. When 

I 'in gone 
The world will like a valuator sit 
Upon my soul, and say, ' I was a cloud 
That caught its glory from a sunken sun, 
And gradual burn'd into its native gray.' " 
On an October eve, 't was his last wish 
To see again the mists and golden woods ; 
Upon his death-bed he was lifted up, 
The slumb'rous sun within the lazy west 



With their last gladness flll'd his dyin* 

eyes. 

No sooner was he hence than critic-worms 
Were swarming on the body of his fame, 
And thus they judged the dead: 

Poet was 

An April tree whose vermeil-loaded boughs 
Promis'd to Autumn apples juiced and red, 
But never came to fruit." " He is to us 
But a rich odor, a faint music-swell." 
" Poet he was not in the larger sense ; 
He coirtd write pearls, but he could never 

write 

A Poem round and perfect as a star." 
" Politic, i' faith. His most judicious act 
Was dying when he did ; the next five years 
Had tinger'd all the tine dust from his 

wings, 
And left him poor as we. He died 't was 

shrewd ! 
And came witli all his youth and unblown 

hopes 
On the world's heart, and touch'd it into 

tears." 

SEA-MARGE 

The lark is singing in the blinding sky, 
Hedges are white with May. The bride 
groom sea 

Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride, 
And, in the fulness of his marriage joy, 
He decorates her tawny brow with shells, 
Retires a space, to see how fair she looks, 
Then proud, runs up to kiss her. All is 

fair 
All glad, from grass to sun t Yet more I 

love 

Than this, the shrinking day that some 
times conies 
In Winter's front, so fair 'mong its dark 

peers, 

It seems a straggler from the files of June, 
Which in its wanderings had lost its wits, 
And half its beauty ; and, when it return'd, 
Finding its old companions one away, 
It join'd November's troop, then inarching 

past ; 
And so the frail thing comes, and greets 

the world 
With a thin crazy smile, then bursts in 

tears, 

And all the while it holds within its hand 
A few half-wither'd dowers. I love and 
pity it ! 



1 68 



EARLY HYMNODY 



BEAUTY 

BEAUTY still walketh on the earth and air, 
Our present sunsets are as rich in gold 
As ere the Iliad's music was out-roll'd ; 
The roses of the Spring are ever fair, 
? Mong branches green still ring-doves coo 

and pair, 

And the deep sea still foams its music old. 
So, if we are at all divinely soul'd, 
This beauty will unloose our bonds of care. 
'T is pleasant, when blue skies are o'er us 

bending 

Within old starry-gated Poesy, 
To meet a soul set to no worldly tune, 
Like thine, sweet Friend ! Oh, dearer this 

to me 

Than are the dewy trees, the sun, the moon, 
Or noble music with a golden ending. 

TO 

THE broken moon lay in the autumn sky, 

And I lay at thy feet ; 
You bent above me ; in the silence I 

Could hear my wild heart beat. 

I spoke ; my soul was full of trembling fears 
At what my words would bring : 

You rais'd your face, your eyes were full 

of tears, 
As the sweet eyes of Spring. 

You kiss'd me then, I worshipp'd at thy 

feet 

Upon the shadowy sod. 
Oh, fool, I lov'd thee ! lov'd thee, lovely 

cheat ! 
Better than Fame or God. 



My soul leap'd up beneath thy timid kiss ; 

What then to me were groans, 
Or pain, or death ? Earth was a round of 
bliss, 

I seem'd to walk on thrones. 

And you were with me 'mong the rushing 

wheels, 

'Mid Trade's tumultuous jars ; 
And where to awe-struck wilds the Night 

reveals 
Her hollow gulfs of stars. 

Before your window, as before a shrine, 
I 've knelt 'mong dew-soak'd flowers, 

While distant music-bells, with voices fine, 
Measur'd the midnight hours. 

There came a fearful moment : I was pale, 

You wept, and never spoke, 
But clung around me as the woodbine frail 

Clings, pleading, round an oak. 

Upon my wrong I steadied up my soul, 

And flung thee from myself ; 
I spurn'd thy love as 't were a rich man's 
dole, 

It was my only wealth. 

I spurn'd thee ! I, who lov'd thee, could 
have died, 

That hop'd to call thee " wife," 
And bear thee, gently-smiling at my side, 

Through all the shocks of life ! 

Too late, thy fatal beauty and thy tears, 
Thy vows, thy passionate breath ; 

I '11 meet thee not in Life, nor in the spheres 
Made visible by Death. 



EARLY HYMNODY 

(See also: S. F. ADAMS, ALFORD, E. B. BROWNING, H. COLERIDGE, DE VERE, Fox, 

MARTINEAU, NEWMAN) 



AT HOME IN HEAVEN 

FOREVER with the Lord ! " 

Amen, so let it be ; 
Life from the dead is in that word, 
T is immortality. 



Here in the body pent, 

Absent from him I roam, 
Yet nightly pitch my moving tent 
A day's march nearer home. 



MONTGOMERY ELLIOTT 



169 



My Father's house on high, 

Home of my soul, how near 
At times, to faith's foreseeing eye, 
Thy golden gates appear I 

Ah I then my spirit faints 

To reach the land I love, 
The bright inheritance of saints, 
Jerusalem above. 

Yet clouds will intervene, 

And all my prospect flies ; 
Like Noah's dove, I Hit between 
Rough seas and stormy skies. 

Anon the clouds dispart, 
The winds and waters cease, 



While sweetly o'er my gladden'd heart 
Expands the bow o? peace. 

Beneath its glowing arch, 

Along the hallow'd ground, 
I see cherubic armies march, 
A camp of fire around. 

I hear at morn and even, 

At noon and midnight hour, 
The choral harmonies of heaven 

Earth's Babel-tongues o'erpower. 

Then, then I feel that he, 
Remember'd or forgot, 
The Lord, is never far from me, 
Though I perceive him not. 



Charlotte vCHiott 



JUST AS I AM 



JUST as I am, without one plea 
But that thy blood was shed for me, 
And that thou bid'st me come to thee, 
O Lamb of God, I come I 

Just as I am, and waiting not 
To rid my soul of one dark blot, 
To thee, whose blood can cleanse each spot, 
O Lamb of God, I come ! 

Just as I am, though toss'd about, 
With many a conflict, many a doubt, 
Fightings and fears within, without, 

O Lamb of God, I come I 

Just as I am, poor, wretched, blind ; 
Sight, riches, healing of the mind, 
Yea, all I need, in thee to find, 

O Lamb of God; I come ! 

Just as I am, thou wilt receive, 

Wilt welcome, pardon, cleanse, relieve ; 

Because thy promise I believe, 

O Lamb of God, I come ! 

Just as 1 am thy love unknown 
Has broken every banner down ; 
Now to be thine, yea, thine alone, 

O Lamb of God, I come I 



Just as I am, of that free love, 

The breadth, length, depth, and height to 

prove, 
Here for a season, then above, 

O Lamb of God, I come ! 



LET ME BE WITH THEE 

LET me be with thee where thou art, 
My Saviour, my eternal rest 1 

Then only will this longing heart 
Be fully and forever blest. 

Let me be with thee where thou art, 
Thy unveil'd glory to behold ; 

Then only will this wandering heart 
Cease to be treacherous, faithless, cold. 

Let me be with thee where thou art, 
Where spotless saints thy name adore ; 

Then only will this sinful heart 
Be evil and defil'd no more. 

Let me be with thee where thou art, 
Where none can die, where none re- 
move ; 

There neither death nor life will part 
Me from thy presence and thy love I 



170 



EARLY HYMNODY 



PRAYER TO THE TRINITY 

LEAD us. heavenly Father, lead us 

O'er the world's tempestuous sea ; 
Guard us, guide us, keep us, feed us, 
For we have no help but thee ; 
Yet possessing 
Every blessing, 
If our God our Father be. 

Saviour, breathe forgiveness o'er us ; 
All our weakness thou dost know ; 



Thou didst tread this earth before us, 
Thou didst feel its keenest woe j 
Lone and dreary, 
Faint and weary, 
Through the desert thou didst go. 

Spirit of our God, descending. 

Fill our hearts with heavenly joy , 
Love with every passion blending, 
Pleasure that can never cloy : 
Thus provided, 
Pardon'd, guided, 
Nothing can our peace destroy. 



HYMN FOR THE SIXTEENTH 
SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY 

WHEN our heads are bow'd with woe, 
When our bitter tears o'erflow, 
When we mourn the lost, the dear : 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 

Thou our throbbing flesh hast worn, 
Thou our mortal griefs hast borne, 
Thou hast shed the human tear : 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 

When the sullen death-bell tolls 
For our own departed souls 
When our final doom is near, 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 

Thou hast bow'd the dying head, 
Thou the blood of life hast shed, 
Thou hast filFd a mortal bier 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 

When the heart is sad within 
With the thought of all its sin, 
When the spirit shrinks with fear, 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear I 

Thou the shame, the grief hast known ; 
Though the sins were not Thine own, 
Thou hast deign'd their load to bear : 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear I 



BURIAL HYMN 

BROTHER, thou art gone before us, 

And thy saintly soul is flown 
Where tears are wip'd from every eye, 

And sorrow is unknown. 
From the burden of the flesh, 

And from care and sin releas'd, 
Where the wicked cease from troubling, 

And the weary are at rest. 

The toilsome way thou 'st travell'd o'er, 

And hast borne the heavy load ; 
But Christ hath taught thy wandering feet 

To reach his bless'd abode ; 
Thou 'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus, 

On his Father's faithful breast, 
Where the wicked cease from troubling., 

And the weary are at rest. 

Sin can never taint thee now, 

Nor can doubt thy faith assail ; 
Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ 

And the Holy Spirit fail ; 
And there thou 'rt sure to meet the good, 

Whom on earth thou lovest best, 
Where the wicked cease from troubling, 

And the weary are at rest. 

" Earth to earth," and "dust to dust," 
Thus the solemn priest hath said ; 

So we lay the turf above thee now, 
And seal thy narrow bed j 



MILMAN KEBLE 



'7' 



But thy spirit, brother, soars away 

Among the faithful blest, 
Where the wicked cease from troubling, 

And the weary are at rest. 

And when the Lord shall summon us 

Whom thou now hast left behind, 
May we, untainted by the world, 

As sure a welcome find ; 
May each, like thee, depart in peace, 

To be a glorious, happy guest, 
Where the wicked cease from troubling, 

And the weary are at rest. 

RIDE ON IN MAJESTY 

RIDE on ! ride on in majesty ! 
In lowly pomp ride on to die ; 



O Christ, thy triumphs now begin 
O'er captive death and conquer'd sin I 

Ride on ! ride on in majesty I 

The winged armies of the sky 

Look down with sad and wondering eyet 

To see the approaching sacrifice. 

Ride on ! ride on in majesty ! 
The last and fiercest strife is nigh ; 
The Father on his sapphire throne 
Expects his own anointed Son. 

Ride on I ride on in majesty I 
In lowly pomp ride on to die ; 
Bow thy meek head to mortal pain, 
Then take, O God, thy power, and reign I 






WHO RUNS MAY READ 

THERE is a book, who runs may read, 
Which heavenly truth imparts, 

And all the lore its scholars need, 
Pure eyes and Christian hearts. 

The works of God above, below, 

Within us and around, 
Are pages in that book, to show 

How God himself is found. 

The glorious sky, embracing all, 

Is like the Maker's love, 
Wherewith encompass'd, great and small 

In peace and order move. 

The moon above, the Church below, 

A wondrous race they run, 
But all their radiance, all their glow, 

Each borrows of its sun. 

The Saviour lends the light and heat 

That crowns his holy hill ; 
The saints, like stars, around his seat, 

Perform their courses still. 

saints above are stars in heaven 
What are the saints on earth ? 
te trees they stand whom God has given, 
Our Eden's happy birth. 



Faith is their fix'd unswerving root, 
Hope their unfading flower, 

Fair deeds of charity their fruit, 
The glory of their bower. 

The dew of heaven is like thy grace. 

It steals in silence down ; 
But where it lights, the favor'd place 

By richest fruits is known. 

One Name, above all glorious names, 
With its ten thousand tongues 

The everlasting sea proclaims, 
Echoing angelic songs. 

The raging fire, the roaring wind, 
Thy boundless power display : 

But in the gentler breeze we find 
Thy spirit's viewless way. 

Two worlds are ours : 't is only sin 

Forbids us to descry 
The mystic heaven and earth within, 

Plain as the sea and sky. 

Thou, who hast given me eyes to see 
And love this sight so fair, 

Give me a heart to find out thee, 
And read thee everywhere. 



172 



EARLY HYMNODY 



SEED TIME HYMN 

LORD, in thy name thy servants plead, 

And thou hast sworn to hear ; 
Thine is the harvest, thine the seed, 

The fresh and fading year : 

Our hope, when autumn winds blew wild, 

We trusted, Lord, with thee ; 
And still, now spring has on us smil'd, 

We wait on thy decree. 

The former and the latter rain, 

The summer sun and air, 
The green ear, and the golden grain, 

All thine, are ours by prayer. 

Thine too by right, and ours by grace, 

The wondrous growth unseen, 
The hopes that soothe, the fears that brace, 

The love, that shines serene. 

So grant the precious things brought forth 

By sun and moon below, 
That thee in thy new heaven and earth 

We never may forego. 



HOLY MATRIMONY 

THE voice that breath'd o'er Eden, 
That earliest wedding-day, 

The primal marriage blessing, 
It bath not pass'd away. 



Still in the pure espousal 

Of Christian man and maid, 
The holy Three are with us, 

The threefold grace is said. 

For dower of blessed children, 
For love and faith's sweet sake, 

For high mysterious union, 

Which nought on earth may break. 

Be present, awful Father, 

To give away this bride, 
As Eve thou gav'st to Adam 

Out of his own pierced side : 

Be present, Son of Mary, 

To join their loving hands, 
As thou didst bind two natures 

In thine eternal bands : 

Be present, Holiest Spirit, 

To bless them as they kneel, 
As thou for Christ, the Bridegroom, 

The heavenly Spouse dost seal. 

Oh, spread thy pure wing o'er them, 

Let no ill power find place, 
When onward to thine altar 

The hallow'd path they trace, 

To cast their crowns before thee 

In perfect sacrifice, 
Till to the home of gladness 

With Christ's own Bride they rise. AMEN; 



FROM THE RECESSES 

FROM the recesses of a lowly spirit 

My humble prayer ascends : O Father ! 

hear it. 

Upsoaring on the wings of fear and meek 
ness, 

Forgive its weakness. 

I know, I feel, how mean and how un 
worthy 

Tie trembling sacrifice I pour before thee ; 
What can I offer in thy presence holy, 
But sin and folly ? 



For in thy sight, who every bosom viewest, 
Cold are our warmest vows and vain our 

truest ; 
Thoughts of a hurrying hour ; our lips re 

peat them, 

Our hearts forget them. 

We see thy hand it leads us, it supports 

us ; 
We hear thy voice it counsels and it 

courts us ; 
And then we turn away and still thy 

kindness 

Pardons our blindness, 









BOWRING LYTE 



'73 



still thy ruin descends, thy sun is 

glowing, 
its ripen round, flowers are beneath us 

blowing, 

as if man were some deserving crea 
ture, 

Joys cover nature. 

how long-suffering, Lord ! but thou 

delightest 
win with love the wandering ; thou in- 

vitest 

smiles of mercy, not by frowns or ter 
rors, 

Man from his errors. 

can resist thy gentle call, appealing 
every generous thought and grateful 
feeling ? 

voice paternal whispering, watching 
ever, 

My bosom ? never. 

fcher and Saviour ! plant within that bosom 
jse seeds of holiness ; and bid them 

blossom 

fragrance and in beauty bright and ver 
nal, 

And spring eternal. 

place them in those everlasting gar 
dens 

ire angels walk, and seraphs are the 
wardens ; 



Where every flower that creeps through 
death's dark portal 
Becomes immortal. 

WHAT OF THE NIGHT? 

WATCHMAN, tell us of the night, 

What its signs of promise are ( 
Traveller, o'er yon mountain's height 

See that glory-beaming star I 
Watchman, doth its beauteous raj 

Aught of hope or joy foretell ? 
Traveller, yes ! it brings the day, 

Promis'd day of Israel. 

Watchman, tell us of the night : 

Higher yet that star ascends ! 
Traveller, blessedness and light, 

Peace and truth, its course portends. 
Watchman, will its beams alone 

Gild the spot that gave them birth ? 
Traveller, ages are its own, 

And it bursts o'er all the earth ! 

Watchman, tell us of the night, 

For the morning seems to dawn. 
Traveller, darkness takes its flight, 

Doubt and terror are withdrawn. 
Watchman, let thy wand 'rings cease ; 

Hie thee to thy quiet home. 
Traveller, lo ! the Prince of Peace, 

Lo ! the Son of God is come. 



ABIDE WITH ME 

ABIDE with me ! Fast falls the eventide ; 
The darkness deepens : Lord, with me 

abide ! 

When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, 
Help of the helpless, abide with me ! 

Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day ; 
Earth's joys grow dim ; its glories pass 

away : 

Change and decay in all around I see ; 
O thou, who changest not, abide with me ! 

Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word, 
But as thou dwell'st with thy disciples, Lord, 



Familiar, condescending, patient, free, 
Come, not to sojourn, but abide, with me t 

Come not in terrors, as the King of kings ; 
But kind and good, with healing in thy 

wings : 

Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea ; 
Come, Friend of sinners, and thus bide 

with me 1 

Thou on my head in early youth didst 

smile, 
And, though rebellious and perverse 

meanwhile, 

Thou hast not left me, oft as I left thee : 
On to the close, O Lord, abide with me I 



174 



EARLY HYMNODY 



I need thy presence every passing hour. 
What but thy grace can foil the Tempter's 

power ? 
Who like thyself my guide and stay can 

be? 
Through cloud and sunshine, O abide with 

me ! 

I fear no foe with thee at hand to bless : 
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness. 
Where is death's sting, where, grave, thy 

victory ? 
I triumph still, if thou abide with me. 

Hold thou thy cross before my closing eyes ; 
Shine through the gloom, and point me to 

the skies : 
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain 

shadows flee : 
In life and death, O Lord, abide with me ! 

"LO, WE HAVE LEFT ALL" 

JESUS, I my cross have taken, 

All to leave, and follow thee ; 
Destitute, despis'd, forsaken, 

Thou, from hence, my all shalt be. 
Perish every fond ambition, 

All I 've sought and hop'd and known, 
Yet how rich is my condition, 

God and heaven are still my own ! 

Let the world despise and leave me, 

They have left my Saviour, too ; 
Human hearts and looks deceive me ; 

Thou art not, like man, untrue ; 
And, while thou shalt smile upon me, 

God of wisdom, love, and might, 
Foes may hate and friends may shun me : 

Show thy face, and all is bright. 

Go, then, earthly fame and treasure ! 

Come, disaster, scorn, and pain ! 
In thy service pain is pleasure ; 

With thy favor loss is gain. 
I have call'd thee Abba, Father ; 

I have stay'd my heart on thee : 
Storms may howl, and clouds may gather, 

All must work for good to me. 

Man may trouble and distress me, 
'T will but drive me to thy breast ; 



Life with trials hard may press me, 
Heaven will bring me sweeter rest. 

Oh, 't is not in grief to harm me, 
While thy love is left to me ! 

Oh, 't were not in joy to charm me, 
Were that joy immix'd with thee I 

Take, my soul, thy full salvation, 

Rise o'er sin and fear and care ; 
Joy to find in every station 

Something still to do or bear. 
Think what Spirit dwells within thee j 

What a Father's smile is thine ; 
What a Saviour died to win thee : 

Child of heaven, shouldst thou repine ? 

Haste then on from grace to glory, 

Arm'd by faith, and wing'd by" prayer ; 
Heaven's eternal day 's before thee, 

God's own hand shall guide thee there. 
Soon shall close thy earthly mission, 

Swift shall pass thy pilgrim days, 
Hope soon change to glad fruition, 

Faith to sight, and prayer to praise ! 



THE SECRET PLACE 

THERE is a safe and secret place 

Beneath the wings divine, 
Reserv'd for all the heirs of grace : 

Oh, be that refuge mine ! 

The least and feeblest there may bide 

Uninjur'd and unaw'd ; 
While thousands fall on every side, 

He rests secure in God. 

The angels watch him on his way, 
And aid with friendly arm ; 

And Satan, roaring for his prey, 
May hate, but cannot harm. 

He feeds in pastures large and fair 

Of love and truth divine ; 
O child of God, O glory's heir, 

How rich a lot is thine ! 

A hand almighty to defend, 

An ear for every call, 
An honor'd life, a peaceful end, 

And heaven to crown it all 1 



I 



WILBERFORCE C. WORDSWORTH BONAR 



'75 



BDilbcrforcc 



JUST FOR TO-DAY 

LORD, for to-morrow and its needs 

I do not pray ; 
Keep me from any stain of sin 

Just for to-day : 
Let me both diligently work 

And duly pray ; 
Let me be kind in word and deed 

Just for to-day, 
Let me be slow to do my will 

Prompt to obey : 



Help me to sacrifice myself 

Just for to-day. 
Let me no wrong or idle word 

Unthinking say 
Set thou thy seal upon my lips, 

Just for to-day. 
So for to-morrow and its needs 

I do not pray, 
But keep me, guide me, hold me, Lord, 

Just for to-day. 



GIVING TO GOD 

O LORD of heaven, and earth, and sea ! 
To thee all praise and glory be ; 
How shall we show our love to thee, 
Who givest all who givest all ? 

The golden sunshine, vernal air, 
Sweet flowers and fruit thy love declare ; 
When harvests ripen, thou art there, 
Who givest all -^- who givest all. 

For peaceful homes and healthful days, 
For all the blessings earth displays, 
We owe thee thankfulness and praise, 
Who givest all who givest all. 



For souls redeem'd, for sins forgiven, 
For means of grace and hopes of heaven, 
What can to thee, O Lord ! be given, 
Who givest all who givest all ? 

We lose what on ourselves we spend, 
We have, as treasures without end, 
Whatever, Lord, to thee we lend, 
Who givest all who givest all. 

Whatever, Lord, we lend to thee, 
Repaid a thousand-fold will be ; 
Then gladly will we give to thee, 
Who givest all who givest alL 



LOST BUT FOUND 

I WA8 a wandering sheep, 

I did not love the fold ; 
I did not love my Shepherd's voice, 

I would not be controlled. 

I was a wayward child, 

I did not love my home, 
I did not love my Father's voice, 

I lov'd afar to roam. 

The Shepherd sought his sheep ; 
The Father sought his child ; 
They follow'd me o'er vale and hill, 
O'er deserts waste and wild. 



They found me nigh to death, 
Famish'd, and faint, and lone ; 

They bound me with the bands of love ; 
They sav'd the wandering one. 



They spoke in tender love, 
They rais'd my drooping head ; 

They gently clos'd my bleeding wounds, 
My fainting soul they fed. 
They wash'd my filth away, 
They made me clean and fair ; 

They brought me to my home in peace, 
The long-sought wanderer. 



i 7 6 



EARLY HYMNODY 



Jesus my Shepherd is, 

'T was he that lov'd my soul ; 

'T was he that wash'd me in his blood, 
'T was he that made me whole ; 
'T was he that sought the lost, 
That found the wandering sheep ; 

'T was he that brought me to the fold, 
'Tis he that still doth keep. 

I was a wandering sheep, 

I would not be control!' d ; 
But now I love my Shepherd's voice, 

I love, I love the fold. 

I was a wayward child, 

I once preferr'd to roam ; 
But now I love my Father's voice, 

I love, I love his home. 



THE VOICE FROM GALILEE 

I HEARD the voice of Jesus say, 

Come unto me and rest ; 
Lay down, thou weary one, lay down 

Thy head upon my breast. 
I came to Jesus as I was, 

Weary, and worn, and sad, 
I found in him a resting-place, 

And he has made me glad. 

I heard the voice of Jesus say, 

Behold, I freely give 
The living water, thirsty one, 

Stoop down, and drink, and live. 
I came to Jesus and I drank 

Of that life-giving stream ; 
My thirst was quench'd, my soul reviv'd, 

And now I live in him. 

I heard the voice of Jesus say, 

I am this dark world's light, 
Look unto me, thy morn shall rise 

And all thy day be bright. 
I look'd to Jesus, and I found 

In him my Star, my Sun ; 
And in that light of life I' 11 walk 

Till travelling days are done. 

THY WAY, NOT MINE 

THY way, not mine, O Lord, 

However dark it be ! 
Lead me by thine own hand, 

Choose out the path for me. 



Smooth let it be, or rough, 

It will be still the best ; 
Winding or straight, it matters not, 

Right onward to thy rest. 

I dare not choose my lot ; 

I would not, if I might ; 
Choose thou for me, my God ; 

So shall I walk aright. 

The kingdom that I seek 

Is thine ; so let the way 
That leads to it be thine, 

Else I must surely stray. 

Take thou my cup, and it 

With joy or sorrow fill, 
As best to thee may seem ; 

Choose thou my good and ill ; 

Choose thou for me my friends, 
My sickness or my health ; 

Choose thou my cares for me, 
My poverty or wealth. 

Not mine, not mine the choice, 
In things or great or small ; 

Be thou my guide, my strength, 
My wisdom, and my all. 



ABIDE WITH US 

'T is evening now ! 
O Saviour, wilt not thou 
Enter my home and heart, 
Nor ever hence depart, 
Even when the morning breaks. 
And earth again awakes ? 
Thou wilt abide with me, 
And I with thee. 

The world is old ! 

Its air grows dull and cold ; 

Upon its aged face 

The wrinkles come apace ; 

Its western sky is wan, 

Its youth and joy are gone. 

O Master, be our light, 

When o'er us falls the night. 

Evil is round ! 
Iniquities abound ; 
Our cottage will be lone 
When the great Sun is gone ; 



! 



BONAR MONSELL 



'77 



O Saviour, come and bless, 
Come share our loneliness ; 
We need a comforter ; 
Take up thy dwelling here. 



THE MASTER'S TOUCH 

IN the still air the music lies unheard ; 
In the rough marble beauty hides un 
seen ; 

To 'wake the music and the beauty needs 
The master's touch, the sculptor's chisel 
keen. 

Great Master, touch us with thy skilful 

hand, 

Let not the music that is in us die ; 
Great Sculptor, hew and polish us ; nor 

let, 
Hidden and lost, thy form within us lie. 

Spare not the stroke ; do with us as thou 

wilt ; 
Let there be nought untinish'd, broken, 

marr'd ; 

Complete thy purpose, that we may become 
Thy perfect image, O our God and Lord. 

A LITTLE WHILE 

BEYOND the smiling and the weeping 

I shall be soon ; 

Beyond the waking and the sleeping, 
Beyond the sowing and the reaping, 

I shall be soon. 



Love, rest, and home I 

Sweet hope ! 

Lord, tarry not, but come. 

Beyond the blooming and the fading 

I shall be soon ; 

Beyond the shining and the shading, 
Beyond the hoping and the dreading, 

I shall be soon. 

Beyond the rising and the setting 

I shall be soon ; 

Beyond the calming and the fretting, 
Beyond remembering and forgetting, 

I shall be soon. 

Beyond the gathering and the strewing 

I shall be soon ; 

Beyond the ebbing and the flowing, 
Beyond the coming and the going, 

I shall be soon. J 

Beyond the parting and the meeting 

I shall be soon ; 

Beyond the farewell and the greeting, 
Beyond this pulse's fever beating, 

I shall be soon. 

Beyond the frost chain and the fever 

I shall be soon ; 

Beyond the rock waste and the river, 
Beyond the ever and the never, 

I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home ! 
Sweet hope I 
Lord, tarry not, but come. 



3joljn ^Samuel 2>etolep 



LITANY 

WHEN my feet have wander' d 

From the narrow way 
Out into the desert, 

Gone like sheep astray ; 
Soil'd and sore with travel 
Through the ways of men, 
All too weak to bear me 
Back to Thee again : 
Hear me, O my Father ! 
From Thy mercy-seat, 
Save me by the passion 
Of the bleeding feet I 



When my hands, unholy 

Through some sinful deed 
Wrought in me, have freshly 
Made my Saviour's bleed : 
And I cannot lift up 
Mine to Thee in prayer, 
Tied and bound, and holdan 
Back by my despair : 
Then, my Father ! loose them, 
Break for me their bands, 
Save me by the passion 
Of the bleeding hands I : 



i 7 8 



EARLY HYMNODY 



When my thoughts, unruly, 
Dare to doubt of Thee, 

And thy ways to question 
Deem is to be free : 

Till, through cloud and darkness, 

Wholly gone astray, 

They find no returning 

To the narrow way : 

Then, my God ! mine only 

Trust and truth art Thou ; 

Save me by the passion 

Of the bleeding brow ! 



When my heart, forgetful 

Of the love that yet, 
Though by man forgotten, 

Never can forget ; 
All its best affections 
Spent on things below, 
In its sad despondings 
Knows not where to go : 
Then, my God ! mine only 
Hope and help Thou art ; 
Save me by the passion 
Of the bleeding heart ! 



jfrefccricft IMIiam jfafcer 



THE WILL OF GOD 

I WORSHIP thee, sweet will of God ! 

And all thy ways adore ; 
And every day I live, I seem 

To love thee more and more. 

Thou wert the end, the blessed rule 
Of our Saviour's toils and tears ; 

Thou wert the passion of his heart 
Those three and thirty years. 

And he hath breath'd into my soul 

A special love of thee, 
A love to lose my will in his, 

And by that loss be free. 

I love to see thee bring to nought 

The plans of wily men ; 
When simple hearts outwit the wise, 

Oh, thou art loveliest then. 

The headstrong world it presses hard 

Upon the church full oft, 
And then how easily thou turn'st 

The hard ways into soft. 

I love to kiss each print where thou 
Hast set thine unseen feet ; 

I cannot fear thee, blessed will ! 
Thine empire is so sweet. 

When obstacles and trials seem 

Like prison walls to be, 
1 do the little I can do, 

And leave the rest to thee. 



I know not what it is to doubt, 

My heart is ever gay ; 
I run no risk, for, come what will, 

Thou always hast thy way. 

I have no cares, O blessed will ! 

For all my cares are thine : 
I live in triumph, Lord ! for thou 

Hast made thy triumphs mine. 

And when it seems no chance or change 
From grief can set me free, 

Hope finds its strength in helplessness, 
And gayly waits on thee. 

Man's weakness, waiting upon God, 

Its end can never miss, 
For men on earth no work can do 

More angel-like than this. 

Ride on, ride on, triumphantly, 
Thou glorious will, ride on ! 

Faith's pilgrim sons behind thee take 
The road that thou hast gone. 

He always wins who sides with God, 

To him no chance is lost ; 
God's will is sweetest to him, when 

It triumphs at his cost. 

Ill that he blesses is our good, 

And unbless'd good is ill ; 
And all is right that seems most wrong, 

If it be his sweet wilL 



FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER 



'79 



PARADISE 

O PARADISE, O Paradise, 

Who doth not crave for rest, 
Who would not seek the happy land 
Where they that lov'd are blest ? 
Where loyal hearts and true 

Stand ever in the light, 
All rapture through and through, 
In God's most holy sight. 

O Paradise, O Paradise, 

The world is growing old ; 
Who would not be at rest and free 

Where love is never cold ? 

O Paradise, O Paradise, 

Wherefore doth death delay ? 

Bright death, that is the welcome dawn 
Of our eternal day. 

Paradise, O Paradise, 

'T is weary waiting here ; 

1 long to be where Jesus is, 
To feel, to see him near. 

Paradise, O Paradise, 
I want to sin no more, 

1 want to be as pure on earth 
As on thy spotless shore. 

O Paradise, O Paradise, 

I greatly long to see 
The special place my dearest Lord 

Is destining for me. 

O Paradise, O Paradise, 

I feel 't will not be long ; 
Patience ! I almost think I hear 
Faint fragments of thy song ; 
Where loyal hearts and true 

Stand ever in the light, 
AH rapture through and through, 
In God's most holy sight. 



THE RIGHT MUST WIN 

OH, it is hard to work for God, 

To rise and take his part 
Upon this battle-field of earth, 

And not sometimes lose heart I 

He hides himself so wondrously, 
As though there were no God ; 

He is least seen when all the powers 
Of ill are most abroad. 

Or he deserts us at the hour 

The fight is all but lost ; 
And seems to leave us to ourselves 

Just when we need him most 

111 masters good ; good seems to change 

To ill with greatest ease ; 
And, worst of all, the good with good 

Is at cross-purposes. 

Ah ! God is other than we think ; 

His ways are far above, 
Far beyond reason's height, and reach'd 

Only by childlike love. 

Workman of God ! Oh, lose not heart, 
But learn what God is like ; 

And in the darkest battle-field 
Thou shalt know where to strike. 

Thrice bless'd is he to whom is given 

The instinct that can tell 
That God is on the field when he 

Is most invisible. 

Bless'd, too, is he who can divine 

Where real right doth lie, 
And dares to take the side that seem* 

Wrong to man's blindfold eye. 

For right is right, since God is God ; 

And right the day must win ; 
To doubt would be disloyalty, 

To falter would be sin. 



i8o 



EARLY HYMNODY 



TEACH US TO DIE 

WHERE shall we learn to die ? 

Go, gaze with steadfast eye 

On dark Gethsemane 

Or darker Calvary, 

Where through each lingering hour 

The Lord of grace and power, 

Most lowly and most high, 

Has taught the Christian how to die. 

When in the olive shade 
His long last prayer he pray'd, 
When on the cross to heaven 
His parting spirit was given, 
He show'd that to fulfil 
The Father's gracious will, 
Not asking how or why, 
Alone prepares the soul to die. 

No word of anxious strife, 

No anxious cry for life ; 

By scoff and torture torn, 

He speaks not scorn for scorn ; 

Calmly forgiving those 

Who deem themselves his foes, 

In silent majesty 

He points the way at peace to die. 

Delighting to the last 
In memories of the past ; 
Glad at the parting meal 
In lowly tasks to kneel ; 



Still yearning to the end 

For mother and for friend ; 

His great humility 

Loves in such acts of love to die. 

Beyond his depth of woes 
A wider thought arose, 
Along his path of gloom, 
Thought for his country's doom ; 
Athwart all pain and grief, 
Thought for the contrite thief : 
The far-stretch'd sympathy 
Lives on when all beside shall die, 

Bereft, but not alone, 

The world is still his own ; 

The realm of deathless truth 

Still breathes immortal youth ; 

Sure, though in shuddering dread, 

That all is finished, 

With purpose fix'd and high 

The friend of all mankind must die. 

Oh, by those weary hours 

Of slowly-ebbing powers ; 

By those deep lessons heard 

In each expiring word ; 

By that unfailing love 

Lifting the soul above, 

When our last end is nigh, 

So teach us, Lord, with thee to die. 



J)aII 



MY TIMES ARE IN THY HAND 

MY times are in thy hand ! 

I know not what a day 
Or e'en an hour may bring to me, 
But I am safe while trusting thee, 
Though all things fade away. 
All weakness, I 
On him rely 

Who fix'd the earth and spread the starry 
sky. 



My times are in thy hand f 

Pale poverty or wealth, 
Corroding care or calm repose, 
Spring's balmy breath or winter's snows, 
Sickness or buoyant health, 
Whate'er betide, 
If God provide, 
'Tis for the best ; I wish no lot beside, 

My times are in thy hand ! 
Should friendship pure illume 



NEWMAN HALL ANNE BRONTE BLEW 



181 



And strew my path with fairest flowers, 
Or should I spend life's dreary hours 
In solitude's dark gloom, 
Thou art a friend, 
Till time shall end 

Unchangeably the same ; in thee all beau 
ties blend. 

Mv times are in thy hand ! 

Many or few, my days 
I leave with thee, this only pray, 
That by thy grace, I, every day 
Devoting to thy praise, 
May ready be 
To welcome thee 
Whene'er thou com'st to set my spirit free. 

My times are in thy hand ! 

Howe'er those times may end, 
Sudden or slow my soul's release, 
Midst anguish, frenzy, or in peace, 

I 'in safe with Christ my friend. 



If he is nigh, 
Howe'er I die, 
T will be the dawn of heavenly ecstaiy. 

My times are in thy hand f 

To thee I can intrust 
My slumbering clay, till thy command 
Bids all the dead before thee ataud, 
Awaking from the dust. 
Beholding thee, 
What bliss 'twill be 
With all thy saints to spend eternity ! 

To spend eternity 

In heaven's unclouded light ! 
From sorrow, sin, and frailty free, 
Beholding and resembling thee, 
O too transporting sight ! 
Prospect too fair 
For flesh to bear ! 

Haste ! haste ! my Lord, and soon trans 
port me there ! 



Stnne 25rontc 



A PRAYER 



MY God (oh, let me call thee mine, 
Weak, wretched sinner though I be), 

My trembling soul would fain be thine ; 
My feeble faith still clings to thee. 

Not only for the past I grieve, 
The future fills me with dismay ; 

Unless Thou hasten to relieve, 
Thy suppliant is a castaway. 



I cannot say my faith is strong, 
I dare not hope my love is great ; 

But strength and love to thee belong ; 
Oh, do not leave me desolate ! 

I know I owe my all to thee ; 

Oh, take the heart I cannot give ! 
Do Thou my strength my Saviour be, 

And make me to thy glory live. 



IDilliam 

LORD, THY WING OUTSPREAD 

O LORD, thy wing outspread, 

And us thy flock infold ; 
Thy broad wing spread, that covered 

Thy mercy-seat of old : 
And o'er our nightly roof, 

And round our daily path, 
Keep watch and ward, and hold aloof 

The devil and his wrath. 



For thou dost fence onr head, 

And shield yea, thou alone 
The peasant on his pallet-bed, 

The prince upon his throne. 
Make then our heart thine ark, 

Whereon thy Mystic Dove 
May brood, and lighten it, when dark, 

With beams of peace and love ; 



182 



EARLY HYMNODY 



That dearer far to thee 
Than gold or cedar-shrine 

The bodies of thy saints may be, 
The souls by thee made thine : 



So nevermore be stirr'd 

That voice within our heart, 

The fearful word that once was heard, 
" Up, let us hence depart ! " 



Cecil ranceg 



THERE IS A GREEN HILL 

THERE is a green hill far away, 

Without a city wall, 
Where the dear Lord was crucified, 

Who died to save us all. 

We may not know, we cannot tell 
What pains he had to bear, 

But we believe it was for us 
He hung and suffer'd there. 

He died that we might be forgiven, 
He died to make us good, 



That we might go at last to heaven> 
Sav'd by his precious blood. 

There was no other good enough 

To pay the price of sin ; 
He only could unlock the gate 

Of heaven, and let us in. 

O dearly, dearly has he lov'd, 
And we must love him too, 

And trust in his redeeming blood, 
And try his works to do. 



Cecilia 



THE LOST SHEEP 

("THE NINETY AND NINE") 

THERE were ninety and nine that safely lay 

In the shelter of the fold ; 
But one was out on the hills away, 

Far off from the gates of gold, 
Away on the mountains wild and bare, 
Away from the tender Shepherd's care. 

" Lord, thou hast here thy ninety and nine : 
Are they not enough for thee ? " 

But the Shepherd made answer : " 'T is of 

mine 
Has wander'd away from me ; 

And although the road be rough and steep 

J go to the desert to find my sheep." 

But none of the ransom'd ever knew 
How deep were the waters cross'd, 

Nor how dark was the night that the Lord 

pass'd through 
Ere he found his sheep that was lost. 



Out in the desert he heard its cry 
Sick and helpless, and ready to die. 

" Lord, whence are those blood-drops all 

the way, 

That mark out the mountain track ? " 
" They were shed for one who had gone 

astray 

Ere the Shepherd could bring him back." 
"Lord, whence are thy hands so rent and 

torn ? " 
"They are pierced to-night by many a 

thorn." 

But all through the mountains, thunder- 
riven, 

And up from the rocky steep, 
There rose a cry to the gate of heaven, 
" Rejoice ! I have found my sheep ! " 
And the angels echoed around the throne, 
"Rejoice, for the Lord brings back his 
own 1 " 



BARING-GOULD HAVERGAL 



183 



CHILD'S EVENING HYMN 

Now the day is over, 
Night is drawing nigh, 

Shadows of the evening 
Steal across the sky. 

Now the darkness gathers, 

Stars begin to peep, 
Birds and beasts and flowers 

Soon will be asleep. 

Jesu, give the weary 
Calm and sweet repose ; 

With thy tenderest blessing 
May our eyelids close. 

Grant to little children 
Visions bright of thee ; 

Guard the sailors tossing 
On the deep blue sea. 



Comfort every sufferer 
Watching late in paiii ; 

Those who plan some evil 
From their sin restrain. 

Through the long night-watches 
May thine angels spread 

Their white wings above me, 
Watching round my bed. 

When the morning wakens, 

Then may I arise 
Pure and fresh and sinless 

In thy holy eyes. 

Glory to the Father, 

Glory to the Son, 
And to thee, bless'd Spirit, 

Whilst all ages run. AMEN. 



GAVE MY LIFE FOR THEE 

I GAVE my life for thee, 
My precious blood I shed 

That thou mightst ransom'd be, 
And quickeu'd from the dead. 

I gave my life for thee ; 

What hast thou given for me ? 



I spent long years for thee 
In weariness and woe, 

That an eternity 

Of joy thou mightest know. 

I spent long years for thee ; 

Hast thou spent one for me ? 

My Father's home of light, 
My rainbow-circled throne, 

I left, for earthly night, 

For wanderings sad and lone. 

I left it all for thee ; 

Hast thou left aught for me ? 



I suffer'd much for thee, 
More than thy tongue may tell 

Of bitterest agony, 

To rescue thee from hell. 

I suffer'd much for thee ; 

What canst thou bear for me ? 

And I have brought to thee, 
Down from my home above, 

Salvation full and free, 
My pardon and my love. 

Great gifts I brought to thee ; 

What hast thou brought to me ? 

Oh, let thy life be given, 
Thy years for him be spent, 

World-fetters all be riven, 
And joy with suffering blent ; 

I gave myself for thee : 

Give thou thyself to me ? 



II 



THE VICTORIAN EPOCH 

>ERIOD OF TENNYSON, ARNOLD, BROWNING, ROSSETTI, AND SWINBURNE) 

DEATH OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH: APRIL 23, 1850 
ALFRED TENNYSON APPOINTED LAUREATE: NOVEMBER 21, 1850 



PRELUDE 

ENGLAND ! since Shakespeare died no loftier day 
For thee than lights herewith a century's goal, 
Nor statelier exit of heroic soul 

Conjoined with soul heroic, nor a lay 

Excelling theirs who made renowned thy sway 
Even as they heard the billows which outroll 
Thine ancient sea, and left their joy and dole 

In song, and on the strand their mantles gray. 

Star-rayed with fame thine Abbey windows loom 
Above his dust whom the Venetian barge 
Bore to the main ; who passed the two-fold marge 

To slumber in thy keeping, yet make room 
For the great Laurif er, whose chanting large 

And sweet shall last until our tongue's far doom. 

E. C. S. 



THE VICTORIAN EPOCH 

(PERIOD OF TENNYSON, ARNOLD, BROWNING, ROSSETTI, AND SWINBURNE) 
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



frcbcticft 

THIRTY-FIRST OF MAY 

LWAKE ! the crimson dawn is glowing, 

And blissful breath of Morn 
From golden seas is earthward flowing 

Thro* mountain-peaks forlorn ; 
Twixt the tall roses, and the jasmines near, 
That darkly hover in the twilight air, 
see the glory streaming, and I hear 
The sweet wind whispering like a messen 
ger. 

'is time to sing ! the Spirits of Spring 

Go softly by mine ear, 

id out of Fairyland they bring 

Glad tidings to me here ; 
1 is time to sing ! now is the pride of 
Youth 

Pluming the woods, and the first rose ap 
pears, 

And Summer from the chambers of the 
South 

Is coming up to wipe away all tears. 

;y bring glad tidings from afar 
Of Her that cometh after 
To fill the earth, to light the air, 

With music and with laughter ; 
Ev'n now she leaneth forward, as she stands, 
And her fire-wing'd horses, shod with 

gold, 
Stream, like a sunrise, from before her 

hands, 

And thro' the Eastern gates her wheels 
are roll'd. 



'T is time to sing the woodlands ring 

New carols day by day ; 
The wild birds of the islands sing 
Whence they have flown away ; 
'T is time to sing : the nightingale is 

come, 
And 'mid the laurels chants he all night 

long, 
And bids the leaves be still, the winds be 

dumb, 

And like the starlight flashes forth his 
song. 

Immortal Beauty from above, 

Like sunlight breath'd on cloud, 
Touches the weary soul with love, 

And hath unwound the shroud 
Of buried Nature till she looks again 

Fresh in infantine smiles and childish 

tears, 
And o'er the rugged hearts of aeed men 

Sheds the pure dew of Youth s delicious 
years. 

The heart of the awaken'd Earth 

Breathes odorous ecstasy ; 
Let ours beat time unto her mirth, 

And hymn her jubilee ! 
The glory of the Universal Soul 

Ascends from mountain-tops, and lowly 

flowers, 

The mighty pulses throbbing through the 
Whole 

Call unto us for answering life in ours. 



i88 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



Arise ! young Queen of forests green, 

A path was strewn for thee 
With hyacinth, and gold bells atween, 

And red anemone ; 
Arise ! young Queen of beauty and delight, 

Lift up in this fair land thine happy eyes ; 
The valleys yearn, and gardens for thy 
sight, 

But chief this heart that prays for thee 
with sighs. 

How oft into the opening blue 

I look'd up wistfully, 
In hope to see thee wafted thro' 

Bright rifts of stormy sky ; 
Many gray moms, sad nights, and weary 

days, 
Without thy golden smile my heart was 

dying ; 

Oh ! in the valleys let me see thy face, 
And thy loose locks adown the wood- 
walks flying. 

Come, with thy flowers, and silver showers, 

Thy rainbows, and thy light ; 
Fold in thy robe the naked Hours, 

And fill them with thy might ; 
Though less I seek thee for the loveliness 

Thou laughest from thee over land and 

sea, 
Than for the hues wherein gay Fancies dress 

My drooping spirit at the sight of thee. 

Come, with thy voice of thousand joys, 

Thy leaves, and fluttering wings ; 
Come with thy breezes, and the noise 

Of rivulets and of springs ; 
Though less I seek thee for thine harmo 
nies 
Of winds and waters, and thy songs 

divine, 

Than for that Angel that within me lies, 
And makes glad music echoing unto 
thine. 

O Gardens blossoming anew ! 

O Rivers, and fresh Rills ! 
O Mountains in your mantles blue ! 

O dales of daffodils ! 
What ye can do no mortal spirit can, 

Ye have a strength within we cannot 

borrow, 
Blessed are ye beyond the heart of Man, 

Your Joy, your Love, your Life beyond 
all Sorrow ! 



THE BLACKBIRD 

How sweet the harmonies of afternoon * 
The Blackbird sings along the sunny 

breeze 
His ancient song of leaves, and summer 

boon ; 
Rich breath of hayfields streams thro* 

whispering trees ; 
And birds of morning trim their bustling 

wings, 
And listen fondly while the Blackbird 

sings. 

How soft the lovelight of the West re^ 

poses 
On this green valley's cheery solitude, 

On the trim cottage with its screen of 

roses, 
On the gray belfry with its ivy hood, 

And murmuring mill-race, and the wheel 
that flings 

Its bubbling freshness while the Black 
bird sings. 

The very dial on the village church 

Seems as 'twere dreaming in a dozy 

rest ; 

The scribbled benches underneath the porch 

Bask in the kindly welcome of the West ; 

But the broad casements of the old Three 

Kings 

Blaze like a furnace while the Blackbird 
sings. 

And there beneath the immemorial elm 
Three rosy revellers round a table sit, 

And thro' gray clouds give laws unto the 

realm, 

Curse good and great, but worship their 
own wit, 

And roar of fights, and fairs, and junket 
ings, 

Corn, colts, and curs the while the Black 
bird sings. 

Before her home, in her accustom'd seat. 
The tidy Grandam spins beneath the 

shade 
Of the old honeysuckle, at her feet 

The dreaming pug, and purring tabby 

laid ; 

To her low chair a little maiden clings, 
And spells in silence while the Blackbird 
sings. 



FREDERICK TENNYSON 



189 



Sometimes the shadow of a lazy cloud 
Breathes o'er the hamlet with its gardens 

green, 

While the far fields with sunlight overflow'd 
Like golden shores of Fairyland are seen ; 
Again, the sunshine on the shadow springs, 
And fires the thicket where the Blackbird 
sings. 

The woods, the lawn, the peaked Manor- 
house, 
With its peach-cover'd walls, and rookery 

loud, 
The trim, quaint garden alleys, screened 

with boughs, 

The lion-headed gates, so grim and proud, 
The mossy fountain with its murmurings, 
I Lie in warm sunshine while the Blackbird 
sings. 



The ring of silver voices, and the sheen 
Of festal garments and my Lady 

streams 

With her gay court across the garden green ; 
Some laugh, and dance, some whisper 

their love-dreams ; 

And one calls for a little page ; he strings 
Her lute beside her while the Blackbird 
sings. 






A little while and lo ! the charm is heard, 
A youth, whose life has been all Summer, 

steals 
Forth from the noisy guests around the 

board, 

Creeps by her softly ; at her footstool 
kneels ; 

when she pauses, murmurs tender 
things 

her fond ear while the Blackbird 
sings. 

The smoke-wreaths from the chimneys curl 

up higher, 

And dizzy things of eve begin to float 
Upon the light ; the breeze begins to tire ; 

Half way to sunset with a drowsy note 
The ancient clock from out the valley 

swings ; 

Grandam nods and still the Black 
bird sings. 

IT shouts and laughter from the farmstead 

peal, 
Where the great stack is piling in the sun ; 



Thro' narrow gates o'erladen wagons peel, 

And barking curs into the tumult run ; 

While the inconstant wind bears off, and 

brings 
The merry tempest and the Blackbird 

sings. 

On the high wold the last look of the sun 

Burns, like a beacon, over dale and stream; 
The shouts have ceased, the laughter and 

the fun ; 
The Grandam sleeps, and peaceful be her 

dream ; 

Only a hammer on an anvil rings ; 
The day is dying still the Blackbird sings. 

Now the good Vicar passes from his gate 
Serene, with long white hair ; and in his 

eye 
Burns the clear spirit that hath conquer'd 

Fate, 

And felt the wings of immortality ; 
His heart is throng'd with great imaginings, 
And tender mercies while the Blackbird 
sings. 

Down by the brook he bends his steps, and 

thro' 

A lowly wicket ; and at last he stands 
Awful beside the bed of one who grew 
From boyhood with him who with 

lifted hands 

And eyes, seems listening to far welcoming*, 
And sweeter music than the Blackbird sings. 

Two golden stars, like tokens from the 

Blest, 
Strike on his dim orbs from the setting 

sun ; 
His sinking hands seem pointing to the 

West; 
He smiles as though he said "Thy will 

be done : " 

His eyes, they see not those illuminings ; 
His ears, they hear not what the Blackbird 

sings. 

FROM "NIOBE" 

I TOO remember, in the after years, 
The long-hair'd Niobe, when she was old, 
Sitting alone, without the city gates, 
Upon the ground ; alone she sat, and 

.mourn'd. 
Her watchers, mindful of her royal state, 



190 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



Her widowhood, and sorrows, follow'd her 
Far off, when she went forth, to be alone 
In lonely places ; and at set of sun 
They won her back by some fond phantasy, 
By telling her some tale of the gone days 
Of her dear lost ones, promising to show her 
Some faded garland, or some broken toy, 
Dusty and dim, which they had found, or 

feign'd 
To have found, some plaything of their 

infant hours. 

Within the echoes of a ruin'd court 
She sat and mourn'd, with her lamenting 

voice, 

Melodious in sorrow, like the sound 
Of funeral hymns ; for in her youth she sang 
Along the myrtle valleys in the spring, 
Plucking the fresh pinks and the hyacinths, 
With her fair troop of girls, who answer'd 

her 

Silverly sweet, so that the lovely tribe 
Were Nature's matchless treble to the last 
Delicious pipe, pure, warbling, dewy clear. 
In summer and in winter, that lorn voice 
Went up, like the struck spirit of this world, 
Making the starry roof of heaven tremble 
With her lament, and agony, and all 
The crowned Gods in their high tabernacles 
Sigh unawares, and think upon their deeds. 
Her guardians let her wander at her will, 
For all could weep for her ; had she not 

been 

The first and fairest of that sunny land, 
And bless'd with all things ; doubly crowii'd 

with power 
And beauty, doubly now discrown'd and 

fallen ? 

Oh ! none would harm her, only she herself ; 
And chiefly then when they would hold her 

back, 

And sue her to take comfort in her home, 
Or in the bridal chambers of her youth, 
Or in the old gardens, once her joy and 

pride, 

Or the rose-bowers along the river-shore 
She lov'd of old, now silent and forsaken. 
For then she fled away, as though in fear, 
As if she saw the spectres of her hours 
Of joyaunce pass before her in the shapes 
Of her belov'd ones. But most she chose 
Waste places, where the moss and lichen 

crawl'd, 

And the wild ivy flutter'd, and the rains 
Wept thro' the roofless ruins, and all 

seem'd 



To mourn in symbols, and to answer to her, 
Showing her outward that she was within. 
The unregarding multitude pass'd on, 
Because her woe was a familiar sight. 
But some there were that shut their ears 

and fled, 
And they were childless ; the rose-lipp'd 

and young 

Felt that imperial voice and desolate 
Strike cold into their hearts ; children at 

play 
Were smit with sudden silence, with their 

toys 
Clutch'd in their hands, forgetful of the 

game. 

Aged she was, yet beautiful in age. 
Her beauty, thro' the cloud of years and 

grief, 

Shone as a wintry sun ; she never smil'd, 
Save when a darkness pass'd across the sun, 
And blotted out from her entranced eyes 
Disastrous shapes that rode upon his disk, 
Tyrannous visions, armed presences ; 
And then she sigh'd and lifted up her head, 
And shed a few warm tears. But when he 

rose, 

And her sad eyes unclos'd before his beams, 
She started up with terrors in her look, 
That wither'd up all pity in affright, 
And ran about, like one with Furies torn, 
And rent her hair, and madly threaten'd 

Heaven, 

And call'd for retribution on the Gods, 
Crying, " O save me from Him, He is 

there ; 

Oh, let me wear my little span of life. 
I see Him in the centre of the sun ; 
His face is black with wrath ! thou angry 

God, 

I am a worthless thing, a childless mother,, 
Widow'd and wasted, old and comfortless, 
But still I am alive ; wouldst thou take 

all? 
Thou who hast snatch'd my hopes and m^ 

delights, 
Thou who hast kill'd my children, wouldst 

thou take 

The little remnant of my days of sorrow, 
Which the sharp winds of the first winter 

days, 
Or the first night of frost, may give unto 

thee ? 

For never shall I seek again that home 
Where they are not ; cold, cold shall be the 

hearth 



CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER 



191 



Where they were gather'd, cold as is my 

heart ! 

Oh ! if my living lot be bitterness, 
T is sweeter than to think, that, if I go 
Down to the dust, then I shall think no more 
Of them I lov'd and lost, the thoughts of 

whom 

Are all my being, and shall speak no more, 
In answer to their voices in my heart, 
As though it were mine ear, rewording all 
Their innocent delights, and fleeting pains, 
Their infant fondnesses, their little wants, 
And simple words. Oh ! while I am, I 

dream 
Of those who are not ; thus my anguish 

grows 
My solace, as the salt surf of the seas 



Clothes the sharp crags with beauty." Then 

her mood 
Would veer to madness, like a wind/ 

change 
That brings up thunder, and she rais'd her 

voice, 
Crying, " And yet they are not, they who 

were, 
And never more 

dreams ! " 
And, suddenly becoming motionless, 
The bright hue from her cheeks and fore* 

head pass'd, 

And, full of awful resignation, fixing 
Her large undazzled orbs upon the sun, 
She shriek'd, " Strike, God, thou canst not 

harm me more I " 



shall be! accursed 



ennpon umnr 



THE LION'S SKELETON 

How long, O lion, hast thou fleshless lain ? 
What rapt thy fierce and thirsty eyes 

away ? 
First came the vulture : worms, heat, wind, 

and rain 

Ensued, and ardors of the tropic day. 
I know not if they spar'd it thee how 

long 
The canker sate within thy monstrous 

mane, 
Till it fell piecemeal, and bestrew'd the 

plain, 
Or, shredded by the storming sands, was 

flung 

Again to earth ; but now thine ample front, 
Whereon the great frowns gather'd, is laid 

bare ; 
The thunders of thy throat, which erst 

were wont 

lo scare the desert, are no longer there ; 
Thy claws remain, but worms, wind, rain, 

and heat 
Have sifted out the substance of thy feet. 

THE VACANT CAGE 

OUR little bird in his full day of health 
With his gold-coated beauty made us glad, 
And when disease approach'd with cruel 

stealth, 
A sadder interest our smiles forbad. 



How oft we watch 'd him, when the night 

hours came, 
His poor head buried near his bursting 

heart, 
Which beat within a puffd and troubled 

frame ; 

But he has gone at last, and play M his part : 
The seed-glass, slighted by his sickening 

taste, 

The little moulted feathers, saffron-tipp'd, 
The fountain, where his fever'd bill was 

dipp'd, 

The perches, which his failing feet embraced, 
All these remain not even his bath re- 

mov'd 
But where 's the spray and flutter that we 

lov'd ? 

THE LACHRYMATORY 

FROM out the grave of one whose budding 

years 
Were cropp'd by death, when Rome was in 

her prime, 

I brought the phial of his kinsman's tears, 
There placed, as was the wont of ancient 

time; 
Round me, that night, in meads of aspho 

del, 
The souls of the early dead did come and 



Drawn by that flask of grief, as by a 
That long-imprison'd shower of human woe 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



As round Ulysses, for the draught of blood, 
The heroes throng'd, those spirits flock'd 

to me, 
Where, lonely, with that charm of tears, I 

stood ; 

Two, most of all, my dreaming eyes did see ; 
The young Marcellus, young, but great and 

good, 
And Tully's daughter, mourn'd so tenderly. 



THE BUOY-BELL 

How like the leper, with his own sad cry 
Enforcing his own solitude, it tolls ! 
That lonely bell set in the rushing shoals, 
To warn us from the place of jeopardy S 
O friend of man ! sore-vex'd by ocean's 

power, 
The changing tides wash o'er thee day by 

day ; 
Thy trembling mouth is fill'd with bitter 

spray, 

Yet still thou ringest on from hour to hour ; 
High is thy mission, though thy lot is 

wild 

To be in danger's realm a guardian sound ; 
In seamen's dreams a pleasant part to bear, 
And earn their blessing as the year goes 

round, 
And strike the key-note of each grateful 

prayer, 
Breath 'd in their distant homes by wife or 

child ! 



THE FOREST GLADE 

As one dark morn I trod a forest glade, 

A sunbeam enter'd at the further end, 

And ran to meet me thro' the yielding 
shade 

As one, who in the distance sees a friend, 

And, smiling, hurries to him ; but mine 
eyes, 

Bewilder'd by the change from dark to 
bright, 

Received the greeting with a quick sur 
prise 

At first, and then with tears of pure de 
light ; 

For sad my thoughts had been the tem 
pest's wrath 

Had gloom 'd the night, and made the 
morrow gray ; 



That heavenly guidance humble sorrow 

hath, 

Had turn'd my feet into that forest-way, 
Just when His morning light came down 

the path, 
Among the lonely woods at early day. 



THE LATTICE AT SUNRISE 

As on my bed at dawn I mus'd and pray'd> 
I saw my lattice prank'd upon the wall, 
The flaunting leaves and flitting birds 

withal 

A sunny phantom interlaced with shade ; 
"Thanks be to heaven," in happy mood I 

said, 

" What sweeter aid my matins could befall 
Than the fair glory from the East hath 

made ? 
What holy sleights hath God, the Lord of 

all, 

To bid us feel and see ! we are not free 
To say we see not, for the glory comes 
Nightly and daily, like the flowing sea ; 
His lustre pierceth through the midnight 

glooms 
And, at prime hour, behold ! He follows 

me 
With golden shadows to my secret rooms." 



THE ROOKERY 

METHOUGHT, as I beheld the rookery pass 
Homeward at dusk upon the rising wind, 
How every heart in that close-flying mass 
Was well befriended by the Almighty 

mind : 
He marks each sable wing that soars or 

drops, 
He sees them forth at morning to their 

fare, 

He sets them floating on His evening air, 
He sends them home to rest on the tree- 
tops ; 
And when through umber'd leaves the 

night-winds pour, 

With lusty impulse rocking all the grove, 
The stress is measur'd by an eye of love, 
No root is burst, though all the branches 

roar ; 

And, in the morning, cheerly as before, 
The dark clan talks, the social instincts 

move. 



CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER 



'93 



ORION 

How oft I 've watch'd thee from the gar 
den croft, 

[n silence, when the busy day was done, 
shining with wondrous brilliancy aloft, 
4 - J flickering like a casement 'gainst the 

sun ! 
seen thee soar from out some snowy 

cloud, 
Which held the frozen breath of land and 

sea, 
Tet broke and sever 'd as the wind grew 

loud 

lut earth-bound winds could not dismem 
ber thee, 
Tor shake thy frame of jewels ; I have 

guess 'd 
it thy strange shape and function, haply 

felt 

charm of that old myth about thy belt 
sword ; but, most, my spirit was pos- 

sess'd 

His great Presence, Who is never far 
!Yom his light-bearers, whether man or star. 



TO THE GOSSAMER-LIGHT 

: gleam, that ridest on the gossa 
mer ! 

[ow oft I see thee, with thy wavering lance, 
i'ilt at the midges in their evening dance, 

gentle joust set on by summer air ! 
[ow oft I watch thee from my garden- 
chair ! 
Lnd, failing that, I search the lawns and 

bowers, 
find thee floating o'er the fruits and 

flowers, 

id doing thy sweet work in silence there, 
lou art the poet's darling, ever sought 
the fair garden or the breezy mead ; 
wind dismounts thee not ; thy buoyant 

thread 

Is as the sonnet, poising one bright thought, 
That moves but does not vanish : borne 

along 

Like light, a golden drift through all 
the song ! 



LETTY'S GLOBE 

WHEN Letty had scarce pass'd her third 

glad year, 
And her young, artless words began to 

flow, 
One day we gave the child a color'd 

sphere 
Of the wide earth, that she might mark and 

know, 

By tint and outline, all its sea and land. 
She patted all the world ; old empires 

peep'd 

Between her baby fingers ; her soft hand 
Was welcome at all frontiers. How she 

leap'd, 

And laugh'd and prattled in her world 
wide bliss ; 
But when we turu'd her sweet unlearned 

eye 

On our own isle, she rais'd a joyous cry, 
" Oh ! yes, I see it, Letty's home is there ! " 
And, while she hid all England with a 

kiss, 
Bright over Europe fell her golden hair I 



HER FIRST-BORN 

IT was her first sweet child, her heart's de 
light : 

And, though we all foresaw his early doom, 
We kept the fearful secret out of sight ; 
We saw the canker, but she kins'd the 

bloom. 
And yet it might not be : we could not 

brook 

To vex her happy heart with vague alarms, 
To blanch with tear her fond intrepid 

look, 
Or send a thrill through those encircling 

arms. 

She smil'd upon him, waking or at rest : 
She could not dream her little child would 

die: 
She toss'd him fondly with an upward 

eye: 

She seem'd as buoyant as a summer spray, 
That dances with a blossom on its breast, 
Nor knows how soon it will be borne away 



194 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



StlfrcD, Slorfc rnnpon 



THE DESERTED HOUSE 

LIFE and Thought have gone away 

Side by side, 

Leaving door and windows wide : 
Careless tenants they ! 

All within is dark as night : 
In the windows is no light ; 
And no murmur at the door, 
So frequent on its hinge before. 

Close the door, the shutters close, 

Or thro' the windows we shall see 
The nakedness and vacancy 

Of the dark deserted house. 

Come away : no more of mirth 

Is here or merry-making sound. 

The house was builded of the earth, 
And shall fall again to ground. 

Come away : for Life and Thought 

Here no longer dwell ; 

But in a city glorious 
A great and distant city have bought 

A mansion incorruptible. 
Would they could have stay'd with us ! 

THE LOTOS-EATERS 

" COURAGE ! " he said, and pointed toward 

the land, 
" This mounting wave will roll us shoreward 

soon." 

In the afternoon they came unto a land 
In which it seemed always afternoon. 
All round the coast the languid air did 

swoon, 

Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. 
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon ; 
And like a downward smoke, the slender 

stream 
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall 

did seem. 

A land of streams ! some, like a downward 

smoke, 

Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; 
And some thro' wavering lights and shadows 

broke, 
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 



They saw the gleaming river seaward flow 
From the inner laud : far off, three uioun 

tain-tops, 

Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, 
Stood sunset-flush'd : and, dew'd with show 

ery drops, 
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven 

copse. 

The charmed sunset linger'd low adown 
In the red West : thro' mountain clefts the 

dale 

Was seen far inland, and the yellow down 
Border'd with palm, and many a winding 

vale 

And meadow, set with slender galingale ; 
A land where all things always seem'd the 

same ! 

And round about the keel with faces pale, 
Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, 
The mild -eyed melancholy Lotos -eaters 



Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, 
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they 

gave 

To each, but whoso did receive of them, 
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave 
Far far away did seem to mourn and rave 
On alien shores ; and if his fellow spake, 
His voice was thin, as voices from the grave ; 
And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake, 
And music in his ears his beating heart did 

make. 

They sat them down upon the yellow sand, 
Between the sun and moon upon the shore ; 
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, 
Of child, and wife, and slave ; but evermore 
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar, 
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. 
Then some one said, " We will return no 

more ; " 

And all at once they sang, " Our island home 
Is far beyond the wave ; we will no longei 

roam." 

CHORIC SONG 

I 

THERE is sweet music here that softer falls 
Than petals from blown roses on the grass, 
Or night-dews on still waters between walls 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 



'95 



Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass ; 
Music th:it gentlier on the spirit lies, 
Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes ; 
Music that brings sweet sleep down from 

the blissful skies. 
Here are cool mosses deep, 
And thro' the moss the ivies creep, 
And in the stream the long-lea v'd flowers 

weep, 
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs 

in sleep. 

II 

Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, 

And utterly consum'd with sharp distress, 

While all things else have rest from weari 
ness? 

All things have rest : why should we toil 
alone, 

We only toil, who are the first of things, 

And make perpetual moan, 
I Still from one sorrow to another thrown : 

Nor never fold our wings, 

And cease from wanderings, 
[Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm ; 

Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, 

" There is no joy but calm ! " 
I Why should we only toil, the roof and crown 
of things ? 

Ill 

! in the middle of the wood, 
ic folded leaf is wooed from out the bud 
r ith winds upon the branch, and there 
Grows green and broad, and takes no care, 
Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon 
Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow 
. Falls, and floats adown the air. 
Lo ! sweeten'd with the summer light, 
The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, 
Drops in a silent autumn night. 
All its allotted length of days, 
The flower ripens in its place, 
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, 
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 

IV 

Hateful is the dark-blue sky, 
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 
Death is the end of life ; ah, why 
Should life all labor be ? 
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, 
And in a little while our lips are dumb. 
Let us alone. What is it that will last ? 
All things are taken from us, and become 



Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. 
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have 
To war with evil ? Is there any peace 
In ever climbing up the climbing wave ? 
All things have rest, and ripeu toward the 

grave 

In silence ; ripen, fall, and cease : 
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or 

dreamful ease. 



How sweet it were, hearing the downward 
stream, 

With half-shut eyes ever to seem 

Falling asleep in a half-dream ! 

To dream and dream, like yonder amber 
light, 

Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the 
height ; 

To hear each other's whisper'd speech ; 

Eating the Lotos day by day, 

To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, 

And tender curving lines of creamy spray ; 

To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 

To the influence of mild-minded melan 
choly ; 

To muse and brood and live again in mem 
ory, 

With those old faces of our infancy 

Heap'd over with a mound of grass, 

Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn 
of brass ! 

VI 

Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, 
And dear the last embraces of our wives 
And their warm tears : but all hath suffered 

change : 
For surely now our household hearths are 

cold: 

Our sons inherit us : our looks are strange : 
And we should come like ghosts to trouble 

joy. 

Or else the island princes over-bold 
Have eat our substance, and the minstrel 

sings 

Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, 
And our great deeds, as half-forgottel 

things. 

Is there confusion in the little isle ? 
Let what is broken so remain. 
The Gods are hard to reconcile : 
'T is hard to settle order once apain. 
There is confusion worse than death. 



196 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, 
Long labor unto aged breath, 
Soretask to hearts worn out by many wars 
And eyes grown dim with gazing on the 
pilot-stars. 

VII 

But propp'd on beds of amaranth and moly, 
How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blow 
ing lowly) 

With half-dropp'd eyelid still, 
Beneath a heaven dark and holy, 
To watch the long bright river drawing 

slowly 

His waters from the purple hill 
To hear the dewy echoes calling 
From cave to cave thro' the thick-twin'd 

vine 

To watch the emerald-color'd water falling 
Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath di 
vine ! 
Only te hear and see the far-off sparkling 

brine, 

Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out be 
neath the pine. 

VIII 

The Lotos blooms below the barren peak : 

The Lotos blows by ^e very winding creek : 

All day the wind breathes low with mel 
lower tone : 

Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone 

Round and round the spicy downs the yel 
low Lotos-dust is blown. 

We have had enough of action, and of mo 
tion we, 

Roll'd to starboard, rolPd to larboard, when 
the surge was seething free, 

Where the wallowing monster spouted his 
foam-fountains in the sea. 

Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an 
equal mind, 

In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie 
reclin'd 

On the hills like Gods together, careless of 
mankind. 

For they lie beside their nectar, and the 
bolts are hurl'd 

Far below them in the valleys, and the 
clouds are lightly curl'd 

Round their golden houses, girdled with the 
gleaming world : 

Where they smile in secret, looking over 
wasted lauds, 



Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, 

roaring deeps and fiery sands, 
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and 

sinking ships, and praying hands. 
But they smile, they find a music centred 

in a doleful song 
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient 

tale of wrong, 
Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words 

are strong ; 
Chanted from an ill-us'd race of men that 

cleave the soil, 
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest witl 

enduring toil, 
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and 

wine and oil ; 
Till they perish and they suffer some, 

't is whisper'd down in hell 
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian 

valleys dwell, 
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of 

asphodel. 
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than 

toil, the shore 
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind 

and wave and oar ; 
Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will not 

wander more. 

ULYSSES 

IT little profits that an idle king, 

By this still hearth, among these barren 

crags, 

Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole 
Unequal laws unto a savage race, 
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know 

not me. 

I cannot rest from travel : I will drink 
Life to the lees : all times I have enjoy'd 
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with 

those 
That lov'd me, and alone ; on shore, and 

when 

Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 
Vex'd the dim sea. I am become a name ; 
For always roaming with a hungry heart 
Much have I seen and known : cities of men 
And manners, climates, councils, govern 
ments, 

Myself not least, but honor'd of them all ; 
And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 
I am a part of all that I have met ; 
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 



'97 



Gleams that uutravell'd world, whose mar 
gin fades 

For ever and for ever when I move. 
How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use ! 
As tho' to breathe were life. Life pil'd on 

life 

Were all too little, and of one to me 
Little remains : but every hour is sav'd 
From that eternal silence, something more, 
A bringer of new things ; and vile it were 
For some three suns to store and hoard 

myself, 

And this gray spirit yearning in desire 
To follow knowledge like a sinking star, 
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 

This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle 
Well-lov'd of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild 
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 
In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to iny household gods, 
When I am gone. He works his work, I 

mine. 
There lies the port ; the vessel puffs her 

sail : 
There gloom the dark broad seas. My 

mariners, 
Is that have toil'd, and wrought, and 

thought with me 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 

thunder and the sunshine, and oppos'd 
hearts, free foreheads you and I are 

old; 
Id age hath yet his honor and his toil ; 

ath closes all ; but something ere the end, 
Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks : 
The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs : 

the deep 
Moans round with many voices. Come, my 

friends, 

'T is not too late to seek a newer world. 
1'usli cff, and sitting well in order smite 
The sounding furrows ; for my purpose holds 

(To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 
)f all the western stars, until I die. 
t may be that the gulfs will wash us down : 
i may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 
V.nd see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 




Tho* much is taken, much abides ; and tbo* 
We are not now that strength which 

days 
Mov'd earth and heaven, that which we 

are, we are : 

One equal temper of heroic hearts, 
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in 

will 
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield, 

SIR GALAHAD 

MY good blade carves the casques of men, 

My tough lance thrusteth sure, 
My strength is as the strength of ten, 

Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 

The hard brands shiver on the steel, 
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, 

The horse and rider reel : 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 

And when the tide of combat stands, 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers, 

That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 

How sweet are looks that ladies bend 

On whom their favors fall ! 
For them I battle till the end, 

To save from shame and thrall : 
But all my heart is drawn above, 

My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine : 
I never felt the kiss of love, 

Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
More bounteous aspects on me beam, 

Me mightier transports move and thrill ; 
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 

A* virgin heart in work and will. 

When down the stormy crescent goes, 

A light before me swims, 
Between dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of hymns : 
Then by some secret shrine I ride ; 

I hear a voice, but none are there ; 
The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 

The tapers burning fair. 
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 

The silver vessels sparkle clean, 
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 

And solemn chaitnts resound between. 

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 

I find a magic bark ; 
I Isap on board : nc helmsman steers : 

I float till all is dark. 



198 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



A gentle sound, an awful light ! 

Three angels bear the holy Grail : 
With folded feet, in stoles of white, 

On sleeping wings they sail. 
Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! 

My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
As down dark tides the glory slides, 

And star-like mingles with the stars. 

When on my goodly charger borne 

Thro' dreaming towns I go, 
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, 

The streets are dumb with snow. 
The tempest crackles on the leads, 

And, ringing, springs from brand and 

mail ; 
But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 

And gilds the driving hail. 
I leave the plain, I climb the height ; 

No branchy thicket shelter yields ; 
But blessed forms in whistling storms 

Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 

A maiden knight to me is given 

Such hope, I know not fear ; 
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 

That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease, 

Pure spaces cloth'd in living beams, 
Pure lilies of eternal peace, 

Whose od.ors haunt my dreams ; 
And, stricken by an angel's hand, 

This mortal armor that I wear, 
This weight and size, this heart and eyes, 

Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. 

The clouds are broken in the sky, t 

And thro' the mountain-walls 
A rolling organ-harmony 

Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod, 

Wings flutter, voices hover clear : 
" O just and faithful knight of God ! 

Ride on ! the prize is near." 
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; 

By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, 

Until I find the holy Grail. 



SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN 
GUINEVERE 



souls that balance joy and pain, 
With tears and smiles from heaven again 



The maiden Spring upon the plain 
Came in a sun-lit fall of rain. 

In crystal vapor everywhere 
Blue isles of heaven laugh'd between, 
And far, in forest-deeps unseen, 
The topmost elm-tree gather'd green 

From draughts of balmy air. 

Sometimes the linnet pip'd his song : 
Sometimes the throstle whistled strong 
Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel'd along, 
Hush'd all the groves from fear of wrong \ 

By grassy capes with fuller sound 
In curves the yellowing river ran, 
And drooping chestnut-buds began 
To spread into the perfect fan, 

Above the teeming ground. 

Then, in the boyhood of the year, 
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 
Rode thro' the coverts of the deer, 
With blissful treble ringing clear. 

She seem'd a part of joyous Spring ; 
A gown of grass-green silk she wore, 
Buckled with golden clasps before ; 
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore 

Clos'd in a golden ring. 

Now on some twisted ivy-net, 

Now by some tinkling rivulet, 

In mosses mix'd with violet 

Her cream-white mule his pastern set : 

And fleeter now she skimm'd the plains 
Than she whose elfin prancer springs 
By night to eery warblings, 
When all the glimmering moorland rings 

With jingling bridle-reins. 

As fast she fled thro' sun and shade, 
The happy winds upon her play'd, 
Blowing the ringlet from the braid : 
She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd 

The rein with dainty finger-tips, 
A man had given all other bliss, 
And all his worldly worth for this. 
To waste his whole heart in one kiss 

Upon her perfect lips. 

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 

BREAK, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 



199 



well for the fisherman's boy, 

That he shouts with his sister at play ! 

O well for the sailor lad, 

That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 

And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill ; 

.6ut O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 



SONGS FROM "THE PRINCESS" 

AS THRO* THE LAND 

As thro' the land at eve we went, 

And pluck'd the ripen'd ears, 
We fell out, my wife and I, 
Oh, we fell out I know not why, 

And kiss'd again with tears. 
And blessings on the falling out 

That all the more endears, 
When we fall out with those we love 

And kiss again with tears ! 
For when we came where lies the child 

We lost in other years, 
There above the little grave, 
Oh, there above the little grave, 

We kiss'd again with tears. 



SWEET AND LOW 

i 

SWEET and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea, 
Low, low, breathe and blow, 
Wind of the western sea ! 
>ver the rolling waters go, 
/ome from the dying moon, and blow, 
Blow him again to me ; 
f hile my little one, while my pretty one, 
sleeps. 

-'tyfrO 
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 

Father will come to thee soon ; 
Rest, rest, on mother's breast, 

Father will come to thee soon ; 
Father will come to his babe in the nest; 
Silver sails all out of the west 

Under the silver moon : 
Bleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, 
sleep. 



BUGLE SONG 

THE splendor falls on castle walla 

And snowy summits old in story : 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in K \t tT v. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes Hying, 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 
dying. 

O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear, 

And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
O sweet and far from cliff and scar 

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 
dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river : 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow for ever and for ever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes fly ing. 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, 
dying. 



TEARS, IDLE TEARS 

TEARS, idle tears, I know not what they 

mean, 

Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, 
That brings our friends up from the under 
world, 

Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge ; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer 

dawns 

The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 
To dying ears, when unto dyine eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering 

square ; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

Dear as remember'd kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd 
On lips that are for others ; deep as 1 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more. 



20O 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



THY VOICE IS HEARD 

THY voice is heard thro' rolling drums 

That beat to battle where he stands ; 
Thy face across his fancy comes, 

And gives the battle to his hands : 
A moment, while the trumpets blow, 

He sees his brood about thy knee ; 
The next, like fire he meets the foe, 

And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 



ASK ME NO MORE 

ASK me no more : the moon may draw the 

sea ; 
The cloud may stoop from heaven and 

take the shape 

With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape ; 
But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee ? 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : what answer should I 

give ? 

I love not hollow cheek or faded eye : 
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee 

die! 

Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live ; 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are 

seal'd : 
I strove against the stream and all in 

vain : 

Let the great river take me to the main : 
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ; 
Ask me no more. 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE 
DUKE OF WELLINGTON 



BURY the Great Duke 

With an empire's lamentation, 
Let us bury the Great Duke 

To the noise of the mourning of a mighty 

nation, 

Mourning when their leaders fall, 
Warriors carry the warrior's pall, 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 



Where shall we lay the man whom we de 
plore ? 
Here, in streaming London's central roar. 



Let the sound of those he wrought for, 
And the feet of those he fought for, 
Echo round his bones for evermore. 



Ill 



Lead out the pageant : sad 

As fits an universal woe, 

Let the long long procession go, 

And let the sorrowing crowd about it groiVj 

And let the mournful martial music blow ; 

The last great Englishman is low. 

IV 

Mourn, for to us \e seems the last, 
Remembering all his greatness in the Past. 
No more in soldier fashion will he greet 
With lifted hand the gazer in the street. 
O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute : 
Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood, 
The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute, 
Whole in himself, a common good. 
Mourn for the man of amplest influence, 
Yet clearest of ambitious crime, 
Our greatest yet with least pretence, 
Great in council and great in war, 
Foremost captain of his time, 
Rich in saving common-sense, 
And, as the greatest only are, 
In his simplicity sublime. 
O good gray head which all men knew, 
O voice from which their omens all men 

drew, 

O iron nerve to true occasion true, 
O fall'n at length that tower of strength 
Which stood four-square to all the winds 

that blew ! 

Such was he whom we deplore. 
The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. 
The great World-victor's victor will be seep 

no more. 



All is over and done : 
Render thanks to the Giver, 
England, for thy son. 
Let the bell be toll'd. 
Render thanks to the Giver, 
And render him to the mould. 
Under the cross of gold 
That shines over city and river, 
There he shall rest for ever 
Among the wise and the bold. 
Let the bell be toll'd : 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 



201 



And a reverent people behold 

The towering car, the sable steeds : 

Bright let it be with its blazon'd deeds, 

Dark in its funeral fold. 

Let the bell be toll'd : 

And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll'd ; 

And the sound of the sorrowing anthem 

roll'd 

Thro' the dome of the golden cross ; 
And the volleying cannon thunder his loss ; 
He knew their voices of old. 
For many a time in many a clime 
His captain's-ear has heard them boom 
Bellowing victory, bellowing doom : 
When he with those deep voices wrought, 
Guarding realms and kings from shame ; 
With those deep. voices our dead captain 

taught 

The tyrant, and asserts his claim 
In that dread sound to the great name, 
Which he has worn so pure of blame, 
In praise and in dispraise the same, 
A man of well-attemper'd frame. 
O civic mnse, to such a name, 
To such a name for ages long, 
To such a name, 

Preserve a broad approach of fame, 
And ever-echoing avenues of song. 

VI 

Who is he that cometh, like an honor'd 

guest, 
With banner and with music, with soldier 

and with priest, 
With a nation weeping, and breaking on my 

rest? " 

Mighty Seaman, this is he 
Was great by land as thou by sea. 
Thine island loves thee well, thou famous 

man, 

The greatest sailor since our world began. 
Now, to the roll of muffled drums, 
To thee the greatest soldier comes ; 
For this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea ; 
His foes were thine ; he kept us free ; 
O give him welcome, this is he 
Worthy of our gorgeous rites, 
And worthy to be laid by thee ; 
For this is England's greatest son, 
He that gain'd a hundred fights, 
Nor ever lost an English gun ; 
This is he that far away 
Against the myriads of Assaye 



Clash'd with his fiery few and won ; 

And underneath another sun, 

Warring on a later day, 

Round affrighted Lisbon drew 

The treble works, the vast designs 

Of his labor VI rampart lines, 

Where he greatly stood at ba^, 

Whence he issued forth anew, 

And ever great and greater grew, 

Beating from the wasted vines 

Back to France her banded swarms, 

Back to France with countless blows, 

Till o'er the hills her eagles flew 

Beyond the Pyrenean pines, 

Follow'd up in valley and glen 

With blare of bugle, clamor of men, 

Roll of cannon and clash of arms, 

And England pouring on her foes. 

Such a war had such a close. 

Again their ravening eagle row 

In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing 

wings, 

And barking for the thrones of kings ; 
Till one that sought but Duty's iron crown 
On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler 

down ; 

A day of onsets of despair I 
Dash'd on every rocky square 
Their surging charges foam'd themselves 

away ; 

Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; 
Thro' the long-tormented air 
Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray, 
And down we swept and charged and over 
threw. 

So great a soldier taught us there, 
What long-enduring hearts could do 
In that world-earthquake, Waterloo ! 
Mighty Seaman, tender and true, 
And pure as he from taint of craven gnila, 
O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, 
O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, 
If aught of things that here befall 
Touch a spirit among things divine, 
If love of country move thee there at all, 
Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine ! 
And thro' the centuries let a people's voice 
In full acclaim, 
A people's voice, 

The proof and echo of all human fame, 
A people's voice, when they rejoice 
At civic revel Mid pomp and game, 
Attest their great commander s claim 
With honor, honor, honor, honor to him. 
Eternal honor to his name. 



202 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



VII 

A people's voice ! we are a people yet. 
Tho' all men else their nobler dreams for 
get* 
Confus'd by brainless mobs and lawless 

Powers ; 
Thank Him who isl'd us here, and roughly 

set 
His Briton in blown seas and storming 

showers, 
We have a voice, with which to pay the 

debt 

Of boundless love and reverence and regret 
To those great men who fought, and kept 

it ours. 

And keep it ours, O God, from brute con 
trol ; 
O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the 

soul 

Of Europe, keep our noble England whole, 
And save the one true seed of freedom sown 
Betwixt a people and their ancient throne, 
That sober freedom out of which there 

springs 

Our loyal passion for our temperate kings ; 
For, saving that, ye help to save mankind 
Till public wrong be crumbled into dust, 
And drill the raw world for the march of 

mind, 
Till crowds at length be sane and crowns 

be just. 

But wink no more in slothful overtrust. 
Remember him who led your hosts ; 
He bade you guard the sacred coasts. 
Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall ; 
His voice is silent in your council-hall 
For ever ; and whatever tempests lour 
For ever silent ; even if they broke 
In thunder, silent ; yet remember all 
He spoke among you, and the Man who 

spoke ; 

Who never sold the truth to serve the hour, 
Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power ; 
Who let the turbid streams of rumor flow 
Thro' either babbling world of high and low ; 
Whose life was work, whose language rife 
With rugged maxims hewn from life ; 
Who never spoke against a foe ; 
Whose eighty winters freeze with one re 
buke 
All great self-seekers trampling on the 

right : 

Truth -teller was our England's Alfred 
nam'd ; 



Truth-lover was our English Duke ; 
Whatever record leap to light 
He never shall be sham'd. 



VIII 

Lo, the leader in these glorious wars 
Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 
Follow'd by the brave of other lands, 
He, on whom from both her open hands 
Lavish Honor shower'd all her stars, 
And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn. 
Yea, let all good things await 
Him who cares not to be great, 
But as he saves or serves the state. 
Not once or twice in our rough island-story, 
The path of duty was the way to glory : 
He that walks it, only thirsting 
For the right, and learns to deaden 
Love of self, before his journey closes, 
He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting 
Into glossy purples, which outredden 
All voluptuous garden-roses. 
Not once or twice in our fair island-story, 
The path of duty was the way to glory : 
He, that ever following her commands, 
On with toil of heart and knees and hands, 
Thro' the long gorge to the far light has 

won 

His path upward, and prevail'd, 
Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scal'd 
Are close upon the shining table-lands 
To which our God Himself is moon and 

sun. 

Such was he : his work is done. 
But while the races of mankind endure, 
Let his great example stand 
Colossal, seen of every land, 
And keep the soldier firm, the statesman 

pure : 

Till in all lands and thro' all human story 
The path of duty be the way to glory : 
And let the land whose hearths he sav'ct 

from shame 

For many and many an age proclaim 
At civic revel and pomp and game, 
And when the long-illumin'd cities flame. 
Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame, 
With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, 
Eternal honor to his name. 



IX 



Peace, his triumph will be sung 
By some yet unmoulded tongue 






ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 



203 



Far on in summers that we shall .not see : 

Peace, it is a day of pain 

For one about whose patriarchal knee 

Late the little children clung : 

O peace, it is a day of pain 

For one, upon whose hand and heart and 
brain 

Once the weight and fate of Europe hung. 

Ours the pain, be his the gain ! 

More than is of man's degree 

Must be with us, watching here 

At this, our great solemnity. 

Whom we see not we revere ; 

We revere, and we refrain 

From talk of battles loud and vain, 

And brawling memories all too free 

For such a wise humility 

As befits a solemn fane : 

We revere, and while we hear 

The tides of Music's golden sea 

Setting toward eternity, 

Uplifted high in heart and hope are we, 

Until we doubt not that for one so true 

There must be other nobler work to do 

Than when he fought at Waterloo, 

And victor he must ever be. 

For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill 

And break the shore, and evermore 

Make and break, and work their will ; 

Tho' world on world in myriad myriads 
roll 

Round us, each with different powers, 

And other forms of life than ours, 

What know we greater than the soul ? 

On God and Godlike men we build our 
trust. 

Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's 
ears : 

The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs 
and tears : 

The black earth yawns : the mortal disap 
pears ; 

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; 

He is gone who seem'd so great. 

Gone ; but nothing can bereave him 

Of the force he made his own 

Being here, and we believe him 

Something far advanced in State, 

And that he wears a truer crown 

Than any wreath that man can weave him. 

Speak no more of his renown, 

Lay your earthly fancies down, 

And in the vast cathedral leave him, 

God accept him, Christ receive him. 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT 
BRIGADE 



league, half a league, 
Half a league onward, 

All in the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

Forward, the Light Brigade I 

Charge for the guns ! " he said : 

Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

" Forward, the Light Brigade I" 
Was there a man dismay M ? 
Not tho' the soldier knew 

Some one had blunder'd : 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die : 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm 'd at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well, 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 

Rode the six hundred. 

Flash 'd all their sabres bare, 
Flash'd as they turn'd in air 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wonder'd : 
Plunged in the battery-smoke 
Right thro' the line they broke ; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke 

Shatter'd and sunder'd. 
Then they rode back, but not 

Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came thro' the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of Hell. 



204 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



All that was left of them, 
Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade 1 ? 
O the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wonder'd. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred ! 

NORTHERN FARMER 

OLD STYLE 

WHEER 'asta bean saw long and mea liggin' 

'ere aloan ? 
Noorse ? thourt nowt o' a noorse : whoy, 

Doctor's abean an' agoan : 
Says that I moant 'a naw moor aale : but 

I beaut a fool : 
Git ma my aale, fur I beant a-gawin' to 

break my rule. 

Doctors, they knaws nowt, fur a says what 's 

nawways true : 
Naw soort o' koind o' use to saay the things 

that a do. 
I 've 'ed my point o' aale ivry noight sin' I 

bean 'ere. 
An' I Ve 'ed my quart ivry market-noight 

for foorty year. 

Parson 's a bean loikewoise, an' a sittin' 'ere 

o' my bed. 
" The amoighty 's a taakin o' you l to 'iss^n, 

my friend," a said, 
An' a towd ma my sins, an 's toithe were 

due, an' I gied it in hond : 
I done my duty boy 'um, as I 'a done boy 

the lond. 

Larn'd a ma' bea. I reckons I 'annot sa 
mooch to larn. 

But a cast oop, thot a did, 'bout Bessy Har 
ris's barne. 

Thaw a knaws I hallus voated wi' Squoire 
an' choorch an' staate, 

An' i' the woost o' toimes I wur niver agin 
the raate. 

An' I hallus coom'd to 's chooch afoor moy 

Sally wur dead, 
An* 'card 'um a bummin' awaay loike a 

buzzard-clock 2 ower my 'cad, 
l ou as in hour. 2 Cockchafer. 3 Bittern. 



An' I niver knaw'd whot a mean'd but I 
thowt a 'ad summut to saay, 

An' I thowt a said whot a owt to 'a said 
an' I coom'd away. 

Bessy Marris's barne I tha knaws she laaid 

it to mea. 
Mowt a bean, mayhap, for she wur a bad 

un, shea. 
'Siver, I kep 'um, I kep 'um, my lass, tha 

mun understond ; 
I done moy duty boy 'um as I 'a done boy 

the lond. 

But Parson a cooms an' a goas, an' a says 

it easy an' freea, 
" The almoighty 's a taakin o' you to 'isse'n, 

my friend," says 'ea. 
I weant saay men be loiars, thaw summun 

said it in 'aaste : 
But 'e reads wonn sarmin a weeak, an' I 'a 

stubb'd Thurnaby waaste. 

D' ya moind the waaste, my lass ? naw, naw, 

tha was not born then ; 
Theer wur a boggle in it, I often 'eard 'um 

mysen ; 
Moast loike a butter-bump, 8 fur I 'card 'um 

about an' about, 
But I stubb'd 'um oop wi' the lot, an' raav'd 

an' rembled 'um out. 

Reaper's it wur ; fo' they fun 'um theer 

a-laaid of 'is faace 
Down i' the woild enemies 4 afoor I coom'd 

to the plaace. 
Noaks or Thimbleby toaner 6 'ed shot 'um 

as dead as a naail. 
Noaks wur 'ang'd for it oop at 'soize but 

git ma my aale. 

Dubbut loook at the waaste : theer warn't 

not feead for a cow ; 
Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' loook 

at it now 
Warnt worth nowt a haacre, an' now theer' s 

lots o' feead, 
Fourscoor 1 yows upon it an' some on it 

down i' seead. 6 

Nobbut a bit on it 's left, an' I mean'd to 'a 

stubb'd it at fall, 
Done it ta-year I mean'd, an' runn'd plo\i 

thruff it an' all, 

4 Anemones. 5 One or other. 6 Clover. 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 



2C 5 



If godamoighty an* parson 'ud uobbut let 

ma alolin, 
Mea, vvi' halite h.xmderd haacre o' Squoire's, 

an' lond o' my olin. 

Do godamoighty knaw what a 's doin' 
a-taakiu' o' mea ? 

I beiint wonu as saws 'ere a bean an' yon 
der a pea ; 

An' Squoire 'ull be sa mad an' all a' dear 
a' dear ! 

And 1 'a managed for Squoire coom Michael 
mas ilium year. 

A mowt 'a taaen owd Joanes, as 'ant not a 

'aapoth o' sense, 
Or a mowt 'a taaen young Robins a uiver 

mended a fence : 
But godamoighty a moost taake mea an' 

taiike ma now 
Wi' aaf the cows to cauve an' Thurnaby 

hoiilms to plow ! 

Loook 'ow quoloty srnoiles when they seeas 

ma a passin' boy, 
Says to thessen, naw doubt, " what a man a 

bea sewer-loy ! " 
Fur they knaws what I bean to Squoire sin 

fust a coom'd to the 'All ; 
I done moy duty by Squoire an' I done moy 

duty boy hall. 

Squoire 's i' Lunnon, an* summun I reckons 

'ull 'a to wroite, 
For whoa 's to howd the lond ater mea thot 

muddles ma quok ; 
Sartin-sewer I bea, thot a weant niver give 

it to Joanes, 
Naw, nor a moant to Robins a niver rem- 

bles the stoans. 

But summun 'nil come ater mea mayhap 

wi' 'is kittle o' steam 
Huzzin' an' maazin' the blessed fealds wi' 

the Divil's can team. 
Sin' I mun doy I mun doy, thaw loife they 

says is sweet, 
But sin' I muu doy I mun doy, for I 

could n abear to see it. 

What atta stannin' theer fur, an* doesn bring 

ma the aiile ? 
Doctor 's a' toattler, lass, an a 's hallus i' the 

owd taiile ; 



I weant break rules fur Doctor, a knaws 

naw moor nor a Hoy ; 
Git ma my aale I tell tha, an* if I mun doy 

I muu doy. 



THE DAISY 

WRITTEN AT EDINBURGH 

O LOVE, what hours were thine and mine, 
In lands of palm and southern pine ; 

In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, 
Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine. 

What Roman strength Turbia show'd 
In ruin, by the mountain road ; 

How like a gem, beneath, the city 
Of little Monaco, basking, glow'd. 

How richly down the rocky dell 
The torrent vineyard streaming fell 

To meet the sun and sunny waters, 
That only heav'd with a summer swell. 

What slender campanili grew 

By bays, the peacock's neck in hue ; 

Where, here and there, on sandy beaches 
A milky-bell'd amaryllis blew. 

How young Columbus seem'd to rove, 
Yet present in his natal grove, 

Now watching high on mountain cornice^ 
And steering, now, from a purple cove, 

Now pacing mute by ocean's rim ; 
Till, in a narrow street and dim, 

I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto, 
And drank, and loyally drank to him. 

Nor knew we well what pleas'd us most, 
Not the clipp'd palm of which they boast) 

But distant color, happy hamlet, 
A moulder'd citadel on the coast, 



Or tower, or high hill-convent, 
A light amid its olives given ; 

Or olive-hoary cape in ocean ; 
Or rosy blossom in hot ravine, 

Where oleanders flush'd the bed 
Of silent torrents, gravel-spread ; 

And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten 
Of ice, far up on a mountain head. 



206 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



We lov'd that hall tho' white and cold, 
Those niched shapes of noble mould, 
A princely people's awful princes, 
The grave, severe Genovese of old. 

At Florence too what golden hours, 
In those long galleries, were ours ; 

What drives about the fresh Cascine, 
Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers. 

In bright vignettes, and each complete, 
Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet, 

Or palace, how the city glitter'd, 
Thro' cypress avenues, at our feet. 

But when we cross'd the Lombard plain 
Remember what a plague of rain ; 

Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma ; 
At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain. 

And stern and sad (so rare the smiles 
Of sunlight) look'd the Lombard piles ; 

Porch-pillars on the lion resting, 
And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles. 

Milan, O the chanting quires, 
The giant windows' blazon'd fires, 

The height, the space, the gloom, the 

glory ! 
A mount of marble, a hundred spires ! 

1 climb'd the roofs at break of day ; 
Sun-smitten Alps before me lay. 

I stood among the silent statues, 
And statued pinnacles, mute as they. 

How faintly-flush'd, how phantom-fair, 
Was Monte Rosa, hanging there 

A thousand shadowy-pencill'd valleys 
And snowy dells in a golden air. 

Remember how we came at last 
To Como ; shower and storm and blast 
Had blown the lake beyond his limit, 
And all was flooded ; and how we past 

From Como, when the light was gray, 
And in my head, for half the day, 

The rich Virgilian rustic measure 
Of Lari Maxume, all the way, 

Like ballad-burthen music, kept, 
As on The Lariano crept 

To that fair port below the castle 
Of Queen Theodolind, where we slept ; 



Or hardly slept, but watch'd awake 
A cypress in the moonlight shake, 

The moonlight touching o'er a terrace 
One tall Agave above the lake. 

What more ? we took our last adieu, 
And up the snowy Splugen drew. 

But ere we reach'd the highest summit 
I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you. 

It told of England then to me, 
And now it tells of Italy. 

O love, we two shall go no longer 
To lands of summer across the sea ; 

So dear a life your arms enfold 
Whose crying is a cry for gold : 

Yet here to-night in this dark city, 
When ill and weary, alone and cold, 

I found, tho' crush'd to hard and dry, 
This nursling of another sky 

Still in the little book you lent me, 
And where you tenderly laid it by : 

And I forgot the clouded Forth, 

The gloom that saddens Heaven and Earth, 

The bitter east, the misty summer 
And gray metropolis of the North. 

Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain, 
Perchance, to charm a vacant brain, 

Perchance, to dream you still beside me^ 
My fancy fled to the South again. 



THE FLOWER 

ONCE in a golden hour 
I cast to earth a seed. 

Up there came a flower, 
The people said, a weed. 

To and fro they went 
Thro' my garden-bower, 

And muttering discontent 
Curs'd me and my flower. 

Then it grew so tall 

It wore a crown of light, 
But thieves from o'er the wall 
Stole the seed by night. 

Sow'd it far and wide 

By every town and tower, 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 



207 



Till all the people cried, 
" Splendid is the flower." 

Read my little fable : 
He that runs may read. 

Most can raise the flowers now, 
For all have got the seed. 

And some are pretty enough, 
And some are poor indeed ; 

And now again the people 
Call it but a weed. 



COME INTO THE GARDEN, 
MAUD 

COME into the garden, Maud, 

For the black bat, night, has flown, 

Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone ; 

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, 
And the nmsk of the rose is blown. 

For a breeze of morning moves, 
And the planet of Love is on high, 

Beginning to faint in the light that she loves 
On a bed of daffodil sky, 

To faint in the light of the sun she loves, 
To faint in his light, and to die. 

All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon ; 
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd 

To the dancers dancing in tune ; 
Till silence fell with the waking bird, 

And a hush wHh the setting moon. 

I said to the lily, " There is but one 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
When will the dancers leave her alone ? 

She is weary of dance and play." 
Now half to the setting moon are gone, 

And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 

The last wheel echoes away. 

I said to the rose, " The brief night goes 

In babble and revel and wine. 
young lord-lover, what sighs are those, 

For one that will never be thine ? 
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, 

" For ever and ever, mine." 



And the soul of the row went into my 

blood, 

As the music clash'd in the hall : 
And long by the garden lake I stood, 

For I heard your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow and on to 

the wood, 
Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 

From the meadow your walks have left c 
sweet 

That whenever a March-wind sighs 
He sets the jewel-print of your feet 

In violets blue as your eyes, 
To the woody hollows in which we meet 

And the valleys of Paradise. 

The slender acacia would not shake 

One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake 

As the pimpernel doz'd on the lea ; 
But the rose was awake all night for your 
sake, 

Knowing your promise to me ; 
The lilies and roses were all awake, 

They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. 

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, 
Come hither, the dances are doue, 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 
Queen lily and rose in one ; 

Shine out, little head, sunning over with 

curls, 
To the flowers, and be their sun. 

There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, my dove, my dear ; 

She is coming, my life, my fate ; 
The red rose cries, " She is near, she if 
near ; " 

And the white rose weeps, " She is late ; " 
The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear ; " 

And the lily whispers, " I wait." f 

She is coming, my own, my sweet ; 

Were it ever so airy a tread, 
My heart would hear her and beat, 

Were it earth in an earthv bed ; 
My dust would hear her and beat, 

Had I lain for a century dead ; 
Would start and treml'U' under her feet, 

And blossom in purple and red. 



208 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



THE SHELL 
FROM "MAUD" 

SEE what a lovely shell, 
Small and pure as a pearl, 
Lying close to my foot, 
Frail, but a work divine, 
Made so fairily well 
With delicate spire and whorl, 
How exquisitely minute, 
A miracle of design ! 

What is it ? a learned man 
Could give it a clumsy name. 
Let him name it who can, 
The beauty would be the same. 

The tiny cell is forlorn, 
Void of the little living will 
That made it stir on the shore. 
Did he- stand at the diamond door 
Of his house in a rainbow frill ? 
Did he push, when he was uncurl'd, 
A golden foot or a fairy horn 
Thro' his dim water- world ? 

Slight, to be crush'd with a tap 
Of my finger-nail on the sand, 
Small, but a work divine, 
Frail, but of force to withstand, 
Year upon year, the shock 
Of cataract seas that snap 
The three-decker's oaken spine 
Athwart the ledges of rock, 
Here on the Breton strand ! 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 

FROM " IDYLLS OF THE KING " 

THEN saw they how there hove a dusky 

barge, 

Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, 
Beneath them ; and descending they were 

ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately 

forms, 
Black-stol'd, black-hooded, like a dream 

by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold : and 

from them rose 

A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 



Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills 
All night in a waste laud, where no one 

comes, 
Or hath come, since the making of the 

world. 

Then murmur'd Arthur, " Place me in the 

barge." 
So to the barge they came. There those 

three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the King, 

and wept. 

But she, that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, 
And loos'd the shatter'd casque, and chaf'd 

his hands, 
And calPd him by his name, complaining 

loud, 

And dropping bitter tears against a brow 
Strip'd with dark blood : fur all his face 

was white 

And colorless, and like the wither'd moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing 

east ; 
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with 

drops 
Of onset ; and the light and lustrous 

curls 

That made his forehead like a rising sun 
High from the dai's-throne were parch'd 

with dust ; 

Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,, 
Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed 

his lips. 

So like a shatter'd column lay the King ; 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in 

rest, 

From spur to plume a star of tournament, 
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings,, 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go ? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and my 

eyes ? 

For now I see the true old times are dead, 
When every morning brought a noble 

chance, 
And every chance brought out a noble 

knight. 
Such times have been not since the light 

that led 

The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole Round Table is dissolv'd 
Which was an image of the mighty world, 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 



209 



And I, the last, go forth companionless, 
And the days darken round me, and the 

years, 
Among new men, strange faces, other 

minds." 

And slowly auswer'd Arthur from the 

barge : 
1 The old order changeth, yielding place to 

new, 

And God fulfils himself in many ways, 
it one good custom should corrupt the 

world. 

Comfort thyself : what comfort is in me ? 
I have liv'd my life, and that which I have 

done 
May He within himself make pure ! but 

thou, 

If thou shouldst never see my face again, 
Pray for my soul. More things are 

wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, 

let thy voice 

Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than sheep or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain, 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of 

prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call 

them friend ? 

For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest if indeed I go 
(For all my mind is clouded with a 

doubt) 

To the island-valley of Avilion ; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies 
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard 

lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer 

sea, 
Where I will heal me of my grievous 

wound." 

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 
Mov'd from the brink, like some full- 
breasted swan 

That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes 

the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir 

Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the hull 



Look'd one black dot against the verge of 

dawn, 
And on the mere the wailing died away. 

RIZPAH 

WAILING, wailing, wailing, the wind ore? 

land and sea 
And Willy's voice in the wind, " mother, 

come out to me." 
Why should he call me to-night, when be 

knows that I cannot go ? 
For the downs are as bright as day, and the 

full moon stares at the snow. 

We should be seen, my dear ; they would 

spy us out of the town. 
The loud black nights for us, and the storm 

rushing over the down, 
When I cannot see my own hand, but am 

led by the creak of the chain, 
And grovel and grope for my son till I find 

myself drench'd with the rain. 

Anything fallen again ? nay what was 

there left to fall ? 
I have taken them home, I have number'd 

the bones, I have hidden them all. 
What am I saying? and what are you t 

do you come as a spy ? 
Falls ? what falls ? who knows ? As the 

tree falls so must it lie. 

Who let her in ? how long 1ms she been ? 

you what have you heard ? 
Why did you sit so quiet ? you never have 

spoken a word. 

to pray with me yes a lady 

none of their spies 

But the night has crept into my heart, and 
begun to darken my eyes. 

Ah you, that have liv'd so soft, what 
should you know of the night, 

The blast and the burning shame and the 
bitter frost and the fright ? 

1 have done it, while you were asleep 

you were only made for the day. 
I have gather'd my baby together and 
now you may go your way. 

Nay for it 's kind of you, Madam, to sit 

by an old dying wife. 
But say nothing hard of my boy, I have 

only an hour of life. 



210 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



I kiss'd my boy in the prison, before he 

went out to die. 
" They dar'd me to do it," he said, and he 

never has told me a lie. 
I whipp'd him for robbing an orchard once 

when he was but a child 
" The farmer dar'd me to do it," he said ; 

he was always so wild 
And idle and could n't be idle my 

Willy he never could rest. 
The King should have made him a sol 
dier ; he would have been one of his 

best. 

But he liv'd with a lot of wild mates, and 

they never would let him be good ; 
They swore that he dare not rob the mail, 

and he swore that he would ; 
And he took no life, but he took one purse, 

and when all was done 
He flung it among his fellows I '11 none 

of it, said my son. 

I came into court to the Judge and the 

lawyers. I told them my tale, 
God's own' truth but they kill'd him, 

they kill'd him for robbing the mail. 
They hang'd him in chains for a show 

he had always borne a good name 
To be hang'd for a thief and then put 

away is n't that enough shame ? 
Dust to dust low down let us hide ! 

but they set him so high 
That all the ships of the world could stare 

at him, passing by. 
God 'ill pardon the hell-black raven and 

horrible fowls of the air, 
But not the black heart of the lawyer who 

kill'd him and haug'd him there. 

And the jailer forced me away. I had bid 

him my last goodbye ; 
They had fasten'd the door of his cell, 

" O mother ! " I heard him cry. 
I could n't get back tho' I tried, he had 

something further to say, 
And now I never shall know it. The 

jailer forced me away. 

Then since I could n't but hear that cry of 

my boy that was dead, 
They seiz'd me and shut me up : they 

fasten'd me down on my bed. 
" Mother, O mother ! " he call'd in the 

dark to me year after year 



They beat me for that, they beat me 

you know that I could n't but hear ; 

And then at the last they found I had 
grown so stupid and still 

They let me abroad again but the 
creatures had work'd their will. 

Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone of my 

bone was left 
I stole them all from the lawyers and 

you, will you call it a theft ? 
My baby, the bones that had suck'd me, 

the bones that had laugh'd and 

had cried 
Theirs ? O no ! they are mine not 

theirs they had mov'd in my side. 

Do you think I was scar'd by the bones ? 

I kiss'd 'em, I buried 'em all 
I can't dig deep, I am old in the night 

by the churchyard wall. 
My Willy 'ill rise up whole when the 

trumpet of judgment 'ill sound, 
But I charge you never to say that I laid 

him in holy ground. 

They would scratch him up they would 

hang him again on the cursed tree. 
Sin ? O yes we are sinners, I know 

let all that be, 
And read me a Bible verse of the Lord's 

good will toward men 
" Full of compassion and mercy, the Lord " 

let me hear it again ; 
" Full of compassion and mercy long- 
suffering." Yes, O yes ! 
For the lawyer is born but to murder the 

Saviour lives but to bless. 
He '11 never put on the black cap except for 

the worst of the worst, 
And the first may be last I have heard it 

in church and the last may be first. 
Suffering O long-suffering yes, as the 

Lord must know, 
Year after year in the mist and the wind 

and the shower and the snow. 

Heard, have you ? what ? they have told 

you he never repented his sin. 
How do they know it ? are they his mother ? 

are you of his kin ? 
Heard ! have you ever heard, when the 

storm on the downs began, 
The wind that 'ill wail like a child and the 

sea that 'ill moan like a man ? 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 



211 



Election, Election and Reprobation it 's 

all very well. 
But I go to-night to my boy, and I shall 

not find him in Hell. 
For I car'd so much for my boy that the 

Lord has look'd into my care, 
And He means me, I 'ni sure, to be happy 

with Willy, I know not where. 

And if he be lost but to save my soul, 

that is all your desire : 
Do you think that I care for my soul if my 

boy be gone to the fire ? 
I have been with God in the dark go, go, 

you may leave me alone 
You never have borne a child you are 

just as hard as a stone. 

Madam, I beg your pardon ! I think that 
you mean to be kind, 

But I cannot hear what you say for my 
Willy's voice in the wind 

The snow and the sky so bright he us'd 
but to call in the dark, 

And he calls to me now from the church 
and not from the gibbet for hark ! 

Nay you can hear it yourself it is 
coming shaking the walls 

"Willy the moon's in a cloud Good 
night. I am going. He calls. 

FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED 
WALL 

FLOWER in the crannied wall, 

I pluck you out of the crannies, 

I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, 

Little flower but if I could understand 

What you are, root and all, and all in all, 

I should know what God and man is. 



SONG IN "THE FORESTERS"* 

THERE is no land like England 

Where'er the light of day be ; 
There are no hearts like English hearts, 

Such hearts of oak as they be. 
There is no land like England 

Where'er the light of day be ; 
There are no men like Englishmen, 

So tall and bold as they be. 

And these will strike for England 
And man and maid be free 



To foil and spoil the tyrant 
Beneath the greenwood tree. 

There is no land like England 

Where'er the light of day be ; 
There are no wives likt Kn^lish wives, 

So fair and chaste as they be. 
There is no land like England 

Where'er the light of day l>e ; 
There are no maids like the English maids. 

So beautiful as they be. 

And these shall wed with freemen, 
And all their sous be free, 

To sing the songs of England 
Beneath the greenwood tree. 



VASTNESS 

MAXT a hearth upon our dark globe sighs 
after many a vanish'd face, 

Many a planet by many a sun may roll with 
the dust of a vanish'd race. 

Raving politics, never at rest as this poor 
earth's pale history runs, 

What is it all but a trouble of ants in the 
gleam of a million million of suns ? 

Lies upon this side, lies upon that side, 
truthless violence mourn'd by the 
Wise, 

Thousands of voices drowning his own in a 
popular torrent of lies upon lies ; 

Stately purposes, valor in battle, glorious 

annals of army and fleet, 
Death for the right cause, death for the 

wrong cause, trumpets of victory, 

groans of defeat ; 

Innocence seeth'd in her mother's milk^ 

and Charity setting the martyi 

aflame ; 
Thraldom who walks with the banner ot 

Freedom, and recks not to ruin a 

realm in her name ; 

Faith at her zenith, or all but lost in the 

gloom of doubts that darken the 

schools ; 
Craft with a bunch of all-heal in her hand, 

follow'd up by her vassal legioi 

fools ; 



* Copyright, 1892, by MACKILLAM A Co. 



212 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



Trade flying over a thousand seas with her 
spice and her vintage, her silk and 
her corn ; 

Desolate offing, sailorless harbors, famish 
ing populace, wharves forlorn ; 

Star of the morning, Hope in the sunrise ; 

gloom of the evening, Life at a close ; 
Pleasure who flaunts on her wide downway 

with her flying robe and her poison'd 



Pain, that has crawl'd from the corpse of 

Pleasure, a worm which writhes all 

day, and at night 
Stirs up again in the heart of the sleeper, 

and stings him back to the curse of 

the light ; 

Wealth with his wines and his wedded 
harlots ; honest Poverty, bare to the 
bone ; 

Opulent Avarice, lean as Poverty ; Flattery 
gilding the rift in a throne ; 

Fame blowing out from her golden trum 
pet a jubilant challenge to Time and 
to Fate ; 

Slander, her shadow, sowing the nettle on 
all the laurell'd graves of the Great ; 

Love for the maiden, crown'd with mar- . 

riage, no regrets for aught that has 

been, 
Household happiness, gracious children, 

debtless competence, golden mean ; 

National hatreds of whole generations, and 
pigmy spites of the village spire ; 

Vows that will last to the last death-ruckle, 
and vows that are snapp'd in a mo 
ment of fire ; 

He that has liv'd for the lust of a minute, 
and died in the doing it, flesh with 
out mind ; 

He that has nail'd all flesh to the Cross, till 
Self died out in the love of his kind ; 

Spring and Summer and Autumn and 

Winter, and all these old revolutions 

of earth ; 
All new-old revolutions of Empire 

change of the tide what is all of it 

worth ? 



What the philosophies, all the sciences, 
poesy, varying voices of prayer ? 

All that is noblest, all that is basest, all 
that is filthy with all that is fair ? 

What is it all, if we all of us end but in 
being our own corpse-coffins at last, 

Swallow'd in Vastness, lost in Silence, 
drown'd in the deeps of a meaning 
less Past ? 

What but a murmur of gnats in the gloom, 
or a moment's anger of bees in their 
hive ? 

Peace, let it be ! for I loved him, and love 
him for ever : the dead are not dead 
but alive. 

THE SILENT VOICES* 

WHEN the dumb Hour, cloth'd in black, 
Brings the Dreams about my bed, 
Call me not so often back, 
Silent Voices of the dead, 
Toward the lowland ways behind me, 
And the sunlight that is gone ! 
Call me rather, silent Voices, 
Forward to the starry track 
Glimmering up the heights beyond me 
On, and always on ! 

CROSSING THE BAR 

SUNSET and evening star, 

And one clear call for me ! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar, 

When I put out to sea, 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 

Too full for sound and foam, 
When that which drew from out the bound* 
less deep 

Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell, 

And after that the dark ! 
And may there be no sadness of farewell, 

When I embark ; 

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and 
Place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

When I have cross'd the bar. 



* Copyright, 1892, by MACMILLAN & Co. 



BEACONSFIELD WESTVVOOD 



of 25ffltonfid& 

(BENJAMIN D'ISRAELI) 
WELLINGTON Tlie breath ordain'd of Nature. Thy calm 

NOT only that thy puissant arm could bind 
The tyrant of a world ; and, conquering Fate, 
Enfranchise Europe, do I deem thee great ; 
But that in all thy actions I do find 
Exact propriety : no gusts of mind 
Fitful and wild, but that continuous state 
Of order'd impulse mariners await 
In some benignant and enriching wind, 



Recalls old Rome, as much as thy high 

deed; 

Duty thine only idol, and serene 
When all are troubled ; in the utmost need 
Prescient ; thy country's servant ever eeen, 
Yet sovereign of thyself, whate'er may 

speed. 



WIND OF THE MOUNTAIN! 

WIND of the Mountain, Wind of the 

Mountain, hear ! 

1 have a prayer to whisper in thine ear : 
Hush, pine-tree, hush ! Be silent, syca 
more ! 

Cease thy wild waving, ash-tree, old and 

hoar ! 
Flow softly, stream ! My voice is faint 

with fear 
O Wind of the Mountain, Wind of the 

Mountain, hear ! 

In the dull city, by the lowland shore, 
Pale grows the cheek, so rosy-fresh of yore. 
Woe for the child the fair blithe-hearted 

child 
Once thy glad playmate on the breezy 

wild ! 
Hush, pine-tree, hush ! my voice is faint 

with fear 
Wind of the Mountain, Wind of the 

Mountain, hear ! 

Pale grows the cheek, and dim the sunny 

eyes, 

And the voice falters, and the laughter dies. 
Woe for the child ! She pines, on that sad 

shore, 

For the free hills and happy skies of yore. 
Hush, river, hush ! my voice is faint with 

fear 
Wind of the Mountain, Wind of the 

Mountain, hear t 



O Wind of the Mountain, thou art swift 

and strong 
Follow, for love's sake, though the way be 

long. 

Follow, oh 1 follow, over down and dale, 
To the far city in the lowland vale. 
Hush, pine-tree, hush ! my voice is faint 

with fear 
O Wind of the Mountain, Wind of the 

Mountain, hear I 

Kiss the dear lips, and bid the laughters 

rise ; 
Flush the wan cheek, and brighten the dim 

eyes ; 
Sing songs of home, and soon, from grief 

and pain, 
Win back thy playmate, blessed Wind, 

again 1 
Win back my darling while away my 

fear 
O Wind of the Mountain, Wind of the 

Mountain, hear ! 

IN THE GOLDEN MORNING OF 
THE WORLD 

IN the golden morning of the world, 
When creation's freshness was unfurl'd, 
Had earth truer, fonder hearts than now ? 
One, at least, in this our day, I know, 
(Whisper soft, a* / benedicite /) 
Faithful-fond as any heart could be 
In the golden morning of the world. 



214 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



And were faces, in that orient time, 
Flush'd, in sooth, with more resplendent 

prime, 

More consummate loveliness than now ? 
Nay, one maiden face, at least, I know 
(Whisper soft, a h / benedicite !) 
Just as fair as any face could be 
In the golden morning of the world. 



But dark shadows reign, and storms are 

rife, 

In the once serene clear heaven of life. 
Oh ! sweet angel, at the shining gate, 
By God's mercy, keep one earthly fate, 
One dear life ah I benedicite ! 
Happy, calm, as any such could be 
In the golden morning of the world ! 



2Crti)ur 



IN A LECTURE-ROOM 

AWAY, haunt thou not me, 

Thou vain Philosophy ! 

Little hast thou bestead, 

Save to perplex the head, 

And leave the spirit dead. 

Unto thy broken cisterns wherefore go, 

While from the secret treasure-depths be 
low, 

Fed by the skyey shower, 

And clouds that sink and rest on hill-tops 
high, 

Wisdom at once, and Power, 

Are welling, bubbling forth, unseen, in 
cessantly ? 

Why labor at the dull mechanic oar, 

When the fresh breeze is blowing, 

And the strong current flowing, 

Right onward to the Eternal Shore ? 

A PROTEST 

LIGHT words they were, and lightly, falsely 

said ; 
She heard them, and she started, and 

she rose, 
As in the act to speak ; the sudden 

thought 

And unconsider'd impulse led her on. 
In act to speak she rose, but with the sense 
Of all the eyes of that mix'd company 
Now suddenly turn'd upon her, some with 

age 

Harden'd and dull'd, some cold and criti 
cal ; 

Some in whom vapors of their own conceit, 
As moist malarious mists the heavenly 

stars, 
Still blotted out their good, the best at 

best 



Clougl) 



By frivolous laugh and prate conventional 

All too untun'd for all she thought to 
say, 

With such a thought the mantling blood to 
her cheek 

Flush'd up, and o'er-flush'd itself, blank 
night her soul 

Made dark, and in her all her purpose 
swoon'd. 

She stood as if for sinking. Yet anon, 

With recollections clear, august, sublime, 

Of God's great truth, and right immuta 
ble, 

Which, as obedient vassals, to her mind 

Came summon'd of her will, in self-nega 
tion 

Quelling her troublous earthly conscious 
ness, 

She queen'd it o'er her weakness. At the 
spell 

Back roll'd the ruddy tide, and leaves her 
cheek 

Paler than erst, and yet not ebbs so far 

But that one pulse of one indignant 
thought 

Might hurry it hither in flood. So as she 
stood 

She spoke. God in her spoke, and made 
her heard. 

QUA CURSUM VENTUS 

As ships, becalm'd at eve, that lay 
With canvas drooping, side by side, 
Two towers of sail at dawn of day 
Are scarce long leagues apart descried ; 

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, 
And all the darkling hours they plied, 
Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 
By each was cleaving, side by side : 



ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 



215 



E'en so but why the tale reveal 
Of those whom, year by year unchanged, 
Brief absence join'd anew to feel, 
Astounded, soul from soul estranged ? 

At dead of night their sails were fill'd, 
And onward each rejoicing steer'd : 
Ah, neither blame, for neither will'd, 
Or wist, what first with dawn appear'd ! 

To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain, 
Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too, 
Through winds and tides one compass 

guides, 
To that, and your own selves, be true. 

But O blithe breeze, and O great seas, 
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, 
On your wide plain they join again, 
Together lead them home at last ! 

One port, methought, alike they sought, 
One purpose hold where'er they fare, 
O bounding breeze, O rushing seas, 
At last, at last, unite them there ! 



; FROM"THE BOTHIE OF TOBER- 
NA-VUOLICH" 

THE BATHERS 

THERE is a stream, I name not its name, 
lest inquisitive tourist 

Hunt it, and make it a lion, and get it at 
last into guide-books, 

Springing far off from a loch unexplor'd 
in the folds of great mountains, 

Falling two miles through rowan and 
stunted alder, enveloped 

Then for four more in a forest of pine, 
where broad and ample 

Spreads, to convey it, the glen with heath 
ery slopes on both sides : 

Broad and fair the stream, with occasional 
falls and narrows ; 

But, where the glen of its course ap 
proaches the vale of the river, 

Met and block'd by a huge interposing 
mass of granite, 

Scarce by a channel deep-cut, raging up, 
and raging onward, 

Forces its flood through a passage so nar 
row a lady would step it. 



There, across the great rocky wharves, a 

wooden bridge goes, 
Carrying a path to the forest; below, 

three hundred yards, say, 
Lower in level some twenty-five feet, 

through flats of shingle, 
Stepping-stones and a cart-track cross in 

the open valley. 
But in the interval here the boiling, 

pent-up water 
Frees itself by a final descent, attaining a 

basin, 
Ten feet wide and eighteen long, with 

whiteness and fury 
Occupied partly, but mostly pellucid, pure, 

a mirror ; 
Beautiful there for the color deriv'd from 

green rocks under ; 
Beautiful, most of all, where beads of 

foam up-rising 

Mingle their clouds of white with the deli 
cate hue of the stillness. 
Cliff over cliff for its sides, with rowan and 

pendant birch boughs, 
Here it lies, unthought of above at the 

bridge and pathway, 
Still more enclosed from below by wood 

and rocky projection. 
You are shut in, lett alone with yourself 

and perfection of water, 
Hid on all sides, left alone with yourself 

and the goddess of bathing. 
Here, the pride of the plunger, you stride 

the fall and clear it ; 
Here, the delight of the bather, you roll in 

beaded sparklings, 
Here into pure green depth drop down 

from lofty ledges. 
Hither, a month agone, they had come, 

and discover'd it ; hither 
(Long a design, but long unaccountably left 

unaccomnlish'd), 
Leaving the well-known bridge and path* 

way above to the forest, 
Turning below from the track of the carte. 

over stone and shingle, 
Piercing a wood, and skirting a narrow and 

natural causeway 
Under the rocky wall that hedges the hed 

of the streamlet, 
Rounded a craggy point, and saw on a scd- 

den before them 

Slabs of rock, and a tiny beach, and perfec 
tion of water, 



2l6 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



Picture-like beauty, seclusion sublime, and 

the goddess of bathing. 
There they bath'd, of course, and Arthur, 

the glory of headers, 
Leap'd from the ledges with Hope, he 

twenty feet, he thirty ; 
There, overbold, great Hobbes from a ten- 
foot height descended, 
Prone, as a quadruped, prone with hands 

and feet protending ; 
There in the sparkling champagne, ecstatic, 

they shriek'd and shouted. 
" Hobbes's gutter " the Piper entitles 

the spot, profanely, 
Hope "the Glory" would have, after 

Arthur, the glory of headers : 
But, for before they departed, in shy and 

fugitive reflex 

Here in the eddies and there did the splen 
dor of Jupiter glimmer ; 
Adam adjudged it the name of Hesperus, 

star of the evening. 
Hither, to Hesperus, now, the star of the 

evening above them, 
Come in their lonelier walk the pupils 

twain and Tutor ; 
Turn'd from the track of the carts, and 

passing the stone and shingle, 
Piercing the wood, and skirting the stream 

by the natural causeway, 
Rounded the craggy point, and now at their 

ease look'd up ; and 
Lo, on the rocky ledge, regardant, the 

Glory of headers, 
Lo, on the beach, expecting the plunge, not 

cigarless, the Piper. 
And they look'd, and wonder'd, incredu 
lous, looking yet once more. 
Yes, it was he, on the ledge, bare-limb'd, 

an Apollo, down-gazing, 
Eying one moment the beauty, the life, ere 

he flung himself in it, 
Eying through eddying green waters the 

green-tinting floor underneath them, 
Eying the bead on the surface, the bead, 

like a cloud, rising to it, 
Drinking in, deep in his soul, the beautiful 

hue and the clearness, 
Arthur, the shapely, the brave, the unboast- 

ing, the glory of headers ; 
Yes, and with fragrant weed, by his knap 
sack, spectator and critic, 
Seated on slab by the margin, the Piper, 

the Cloud-compeller. 



PESCHIERA 

WHAT voice did on my spirit fall, 
Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost ? 
" 'T is better to have fought and lost, 
Than never to have fought at all." 

The tricolor a trampled rag 
Lies dirt and dust ; the lines I track 
By sentries' boxes, yellow, black, 
Lead up to no Italian flag. 

I see the Croat soldier stand 
Upon the grass of your redoubts ; 
The eagle with his black wing flouts 
The breadth and beauty of your land. 

Yet not in vain, although in vain, 
O men of Brescia ! on the day 
Of loss past hope, I heard you say 
Your welcome to the noble pain. 

You said : " Since so it is, good-bye, 
Sweet life, high hope ; but whatsoe'er 
May be, or must, no tongue shall dare 
To tell, The Lombard f ear'd to die ! ' " 

You s&id (there shall be answer fit) : 
" And if our children must obey, 
They must ; but, thinking on this day, 
'T will less debase them to submit." 

You said (O not in vain you said) : 
"Haste, brothers, haste, while yet we 

may ; 

The hours ebb fast of this one day, 
While blood may yet be nobly shed." 

Ah ! not for idle hatred, not 
For honor, fame, nor self-applause, 
But for the glory of the cause, 
You did what will not be forgot. 

And though the stranger stand, 't is true, 
By force and fortune's right he stands : 
By fortune, which is in God's hands, 
And strength, which yet shall spring in 
you. 

This voice did on my spirit fall, 
Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost : 
" 'T is better to have fought and lost, 
Than never to have fought at all." 



ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 



217 



FROM "AMOURS DE VOYAGE" 

JUXTAPOSITION 

JUXTAPOSITION, in fine ; and what is juxta 
position ? 

>k you, we travel along in the railway- 
carriage or steamer, 
id, pour passer le temps, till the tedious 

journey be ended, 
aside paper or book, to talk with the 

girl that is next one ; 
1, pour passer le temps, with the terminus 

all but in prospect, 
Talk of eternal ties and marriages made in 

heaven. 
Ah, did we really accept with a perfect 

heart the illusion ! 

Lh, did we really believe that the Pre 
sent indeed is the Only ! 
through all transmutation, all shock 

and convulsion of passion, 
feel we could carry undimmed, unextin- 
guished, the light of our knowledge ! 
But for his funeral train which the bride 
groom sees in the distance, 

he so joyfully, think you, fall in 
with the marriage-procession ? 
lut for that final discharge, would he dare 

to enlist in that service ? 
it for that certain release, ever sign to 

that perilous contract ? 
it for that exit secure, ever bend to that 

treacherous doorway ? 
but the bride, meantime, do you 

think she sees it as he does ? 
But for the steady fore-sense of a freer 

and larger existence, 
ik yon that man could consent to be 

circumscribed here into action ? 
it for assurance within of a limitless ocean 

divine, o'er 
lose great tranquil depths unconscious 

the wind-toss'd surface 
ts into ripples of trouble that come 

and change and endure not, 
it that in this, of a truth, we have our 

being, and know it, 
link you we men could submit to live and 

move as we do here ? 
J, but the women, God bless them ! 

they don't think at all about it. 
Yet we must eat and drink, as you say. 
And as limited beings 



Scarcely can hope to attain upon earth to 

an Actual Abstract, 
Leaving to God contemplation, to His hands 

knowledge confiding, 
S*'re that in us if it perish, in Him it abid- 

eth and dies not. 
Let us in His sight accomplish our petty 

particular doings, 
Yes, and contented sit down to the victual 

that He has provided. 
Allah is great, no doubt, and Juxtaposition 

his prophet. 
Ah, but the women, alas ! they don't lent 

at it in that way. 
Juxtaposition is great ; but, my frit-art, 

I fear me, the maiden 
Hardly would thank or acknowledge the 

lover that sought to obtain her, 
Not as the thing he would wish, but the 

thing he must even put up witb r 
Hardly would tender her hand to the wooer 

that candidly told her 
That she is but for a space, an ad-interim 

solace and pleasure, 
That in the end she shall yield to a perfect 

and absolute something, 
Which I then for myself shall behold, and 

not another, 

Which, amid fondest endearments, mean 
time I forget not, forsake not. 
Ah, ye feminine souls, so loving and so ex 
acting, 

Since we cannot escape, must we even sub 
mit to deceive you ? 
Since, so cruel is truth, sincerity shocks 

and revolts you, 
Will you have us your slaves to lie to you, 

flatter and leave you ? 

ITE DOMUM SATUR/E, VENIT 
HESPERUS 

THE skies have sunk, and hid the upper 

snow, 
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La 

Palie !) 

The rainy clouds are filling fast below, 
And wet will be the path, and wet shall we. 
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La 

Palie ! 

Ah dear ! and where is he, a year agone, 
Who stepp'd beside and cheer'd us on and 
on? 



2l8 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



My sweetheart wanders far away from me 
In foreign land or on a foreign sea. 
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La 
Palie ! 

The lightning zigzags shoot across the sky, 

(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La 
Palie !) 

And through the vale the rains go sweep 
ing by ; 

Ah me ! and when in shelter shall we be ? 

(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La 
Palie !) 

Cold, dreary cold, the stormy winds feel 
they 

O'er foreign lands and foreign seas that 
stray. 

(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La 
Palie !) 

And doth he e'er, I wonder, bring to mind 

The pleasant huts and herds he left be 
hind ? 

And doth he sometimes in his slumbering 

see 
The feeding kine, and doth he think of 

me, 
My sweetheart wandering wheresoe'er it 

be? 
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La 

Palie ! 

The thunder bellows far from snow to 
snow, 

(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La 
Palie !) 

And loud and louder roars the flood be 
low. 

Heigh-ho ! but soon in shelter shall we be : 

Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La 
Palie ! 

Or shall he find before his term be sped 
Some comelier maid that he shall wish to 

wed? 
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La 

Palie !) 

For weary is work, and weary day by day 
To have your comfort miles on miles away. 
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La 

Palie !) 

Or may it be that I shall find my mate, 
And he, returning, see himself too late ? 



For work we must, and what we see, we see, 
And God he knows, and what must be, 

must be, 
When sweethearts wander far away from 

me. 
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La 

Palie ! 

The sky behind is brightening up anew, 
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La 

Palie !) 

The rain is ending, and our journey too ; 
Heigh-ho ! aha ! for here at home are 

we : 
In, Rose, and in, Provence and La Palie ! 



AH! YET CONSIDER IT AGAIN 

OLD things need not be therefore true, 
O brother men, nor yet the new ; 
Ah ! still awhile the old thought retain, 
And yet consider it again ! 

The souls of now two thousand years 
Have laid up here their toils and fears, 
And all the earnings of their pain, 
Ah, yet consider it again ! 

We ! what do we see ? each a space 
Of some few yards before his face ; 
Does that the whole wide plan explain ? 
Ah, yet consider it again ! 

Alas ! the great world goes its way, 
And takes its truth from each new day ; 
They do not quit, nor can retain, 
Far less consider it again. 



WHERE LIES THE LAND 

WHERE lies the land to which the ship 

would go ? 

Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
And where the land she travels from? 

Away, 
Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 

On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth 

face, 
Link'd arm in arm, how pleasant here to 

pace ! 

Or o'er the stern reclining, watch below 
The foaming wake far widening as we go. 






CLOUGH SHAIRP SMEDLEY 



219 



On stormy nights, when wild northwesters 

rave, 
How proud a thing to fight with wind and 

wave ! 

The dripping sailor on the reeling mast 
Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past. 



Where lies the land to which the ship would 

go? 

Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
And where the land she travels from? 

Away, 
Far, far behind, u all that they can say. 



3[ol)it Campbell 



CAILLEACH BEIN-Y-VREICH i 

WEIRD wife of Bein-y-Vreich ! horo ! horo ! 

Aloft in the mist she dwells ; 
Vreich horo ! Vreich horo ! Vreich horo ! 

All alone by the lofty wells. 

Weird, weird wife ! with the long gray 
locks, 

She follows her fleet-foot stags, 
Noisily moving through splinter'd rocks, 

And crashing the grisly crags. 

Tall wife, with the long gray hose I in 
haste 

The rough stony beach she walks ; 
But dulse or seaweed she will not taste, 

Nor yet the green kail stalks. 

And I will not let my herds of deer, 

My bonny red deer go down ; 
I will not let them down to the shore, 

To feed on the sea-shells brown. 

Oh, better they love in the corrie's recess, 

Or on mountain 'top to dwell, 
And feed by my side on the green, green 
cress, 

That grows by the lofty well. 



Broad Bein-y-Vreich is grisly and drear, 
But wherever my feet have been 

The well-springs start for my darling deer, 
And the grass grows tender and green. 

And there high up on the calm nights clear, 

Beside the lofty spring, 
They come to my call, and I milk them 
there, 

And a weird wild song I sing. 

But when hunter men round my dun deer 
prowl, 

I will not let them nigh ; 
Through the rended cloud I cast one scowl, 

They faint on the heath and die. 

And when the north wind o'er the desert 

bare 

Drives loud, to the corries below 
I drive my herds down, and bield them 

there 
From the drifts of the blinding snow. 

Then I mount the blast, and we ride full 
fast, 

And laugh as we stride the storm, 
I, and the witch of the Cruachan Ben, 

And the scowling-eyed Seul-Gorm. 



THE LITTLE FAIR SOUL 



A LITTLE fair soul that knew no sin 

Look'd over the edge of Paradise, 
And saw one striving to come in, 

With fear and tumult iu his eyes. 

i A beanshith or fairy seen by hunter*. 



Oh, brother, is it you ? '' he cried ; 

"Your face is like a breath 

home ; 
Why do you stay so long outside ? 

I am athirst for you to come I 



ft, .1:1 



22O 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



" Tell me first how our mother fares, 
And has she wept too much for me ? " 

" White are her cheeks and white her hairs, 
But not from gentle tears for thee." 

" Tell me, where are our sisters gone ? " 
"Alas, I left them weary and wan." 

' And tell me is the baby grown ? " 
"Alas ! he is almost a man. 

" Cannot you break the gathering days, 
And let the light of death come through, 

Ere his feet stumble in the maze 
Cross'd safely by so few, so few ? 

" For like a crowd upon the sea 
That darkens till you find no shore, 

So was that face of life to me, 
Until I sank for evermore ; 

" And like an army in the snow 

My days went by, a treacherous train, 

Each smiling as he struck his blow, 
Until I lay among them slain." 

" Oh, brother, there was a path so clear ! " 
" There might be, but I never sought." 

" Oh, brother, there was a sword so near ! " 
"There might be, but I never fought." 

u Yet sweep this needless gloom aside, 
For you are come to the gate at last ! " 



Then in despair that soul replied, 
" The gate is fast, the gate is fast' 1 " 

" I cannot move this mighty weight, 
I cannot find this golden key ; 

But hosts of heaven around us wait, 
And none has ever said ' No ' to me. 



" Sweet Saint, put by thy palm and scroll, 
And come and undo the door for me ! " 

" Rest thee still, thou little fair soul, 
It is not mine to keep the key." 

" Kind Angel, strike these doors apart ! 

The air without is dark and cold." 
" Rest thee still, thou little pure heart, 

Not for my word will they unfold." 

Up all the shining heights he pray'd 
For that poor Shadow in the cold ! 

Still came the word, " Not ours to aid ; 
We cannot make the doors unfold." 

But that poor Shadow, still outside, 
Wrung all the sacred air with pain ; 

And all the souls went up and cried 
Where never cry was heard in vain. 

No eye beheld the pitying Face, 
The answer none might understand, 

But dimly through the silent space 
Was seen the stretching of a Hand. 



THE DRIED-UP FOUNTAIN 

OUTSIDE the village, by the public road, 
I know a dried-up fountain, overgrown 
With herbs, the haunt of legendary toad, 
And grass, by Nature sown. 

I know not where its trickling life was still'd; 
No living ears its babbling tongue has 

caught ; 

But often, as I pass, I see it fill'd 
And running o'er with thought. 

I see it as it was in days of old, 

The blue-ey'd maiden stooping o'er its 

brim, 

And smoothing in its glass her locks of gold, 
Lest she should meet with him. 



3tei0l)ton 

She knows that he is near, yet I can see 
Her sweet confusion when she hears him 

come. 

No tryst had they, though every evening he 
Carries her pitchers home. 

The ancient beggar limps along the road 
At thirsty noon, and rests him by its 

brink ; 

The dusty pedlar lays aside his load, 
And pauses there to drink. 

And there the village children come to 

play, 
When busy parents work in shop and 

field. 

The swallows, too, find there the loamy clay 
When 'neath the eaves they build. 



LEIGHTON MATTHEW ARNOLD 



221 



When cows at eve come crooning home, 

the boy 
Leaves them to drink, while his mechanic 

skill 

Within the brook sets up, with inward joy, 
His tiny water-mill. 

And when the night is hush'd in summer 

sleep, 
And rest has come to laborer and team, 



I hear the runnel through the long grass 

creep, 
As 't were a whispering dream. 

Alas ! 't is all a dream. Lover and lass, 
Children and wanderers, are in their 

graves ; 
And where the fountain flow'd a greener 

grass 
Its In Memoriam waves. 



fl^attljcto 



unty 
As though one spake of life unto the 



WRITTEN IN EMERSON'S 
ESSAYS 

"O MONSTROUS, dead, unprofitable world, 
That thou canst hear, and hearing, hold thy 

way ! 

A voice oracular .hath peal'd to-day, 
To-day a hero's banner is unfurl'd ; 
Hast thou no lip for welcome ? " So I 

said. 
Man after man, the world smil'd and 

pass'd by ; 
A smile of wistful incredulit 

ough 01 

dead 
Scornful, and strange, and sorrowful, and 

full 
Of bitter knowledge. Yet the will is 

free ; 

Strong is the soul, and wise, and beauti 
ful ; 

The seeds of god-like power are in us still ; 
Gods are we, bards, saints, heroes, if we 

will ! 
Dumb judges, answer, truth or mockery ? 

[THE WORLD AND THE QUIETIST 

" WHY, when the world's great mind 
Hath finally inclin'd, 
Why," you say, Critias, "be debating still ? 
Why, with these mournful rhymes 
Learn'd in more languid climes, 
Blame our activity 
Who, with such passionate will, 
Are what we mean to be ? " 

Critias, long since, I know 
(For Fate decreed it so), 



Long since the world hath set its heart to 

live ; 

Long since, with credulous zeal 
It turns life's mighty wheel, 
Still doth for laborers send 
Who still their labor give, 
And still expects an end. 

Yet, as the wheel flies round, 
With no ungrateful sound 
Do adverse voices fall on the world's ear. 
Deafen'd by his own stir 
The nigged laborer 
Caught not till then a sense 
So glowing and so near 
Of his omnipotence. 

So, when the feast grew loud 
In Susa's palace proud, 
A white-rob'd slave stole to the Great 

King's side. 

He spake the Great King heard ; 
Felt the slow-rolling word 
Swell his attentive soul ; 
Breath'd deeply as it died, 
And drain'd his mighty bowl. 



FROM "SOHRAB AND RUSTUM" 

THE COMBAT 

HE ceas'd, but while he spake, Rustum 

had risen, 
And stood erect, trembling with rage ; his 

club 

He left to lie, but had regnin'd his spear, 
Whose fiery point now in his mail'd right- 
hand 



822 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



Blaz'd bright and baleful, like that autumn- 
star, 

The baleful sign of fevers ; dust had soil'd 
His stately crest, and dimm'd his glitter 
ing arms. 
His breast heav'd, his lips foam'd, and 

twice his voice 
Was chok'd with rage ; at last these words 

broke way : 
" Girl ! nimble with thy feet, not with 

thy hands ! 
Curl'd minion, dancer, coiner of sweet 

words ! 
Fight, let me hear thy hateful voice no 

more ! 

Thou art not in Af rasiab's gardens now 
With Tartar girls, with whom thou art 

wont to dance ; 

But on the Oxus-sands, and in the dance 
Of battle, and with me, who make no play 
Of war ; I fight it out, and hand to hand. 
Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and 

wine ! 

Remember all thy valor ; try thy feints 
And cunning ! all the pity I had is gone ; 
Because thou hast shani'd me before both 

the hosts 
With thy light skipping tricks, and thy 

girl's wiles." 
He spoke, and Sohrab kindled at his 

taunts, 
And he too drew his sword ; at once they 

rush'd 

Together, as two eagles on one prey 
Come rushing down together from the 

clouds, 
One from the east, one from the west ; 

their shields 

Dash'd with a clang together, and a din 
Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters 
Make often in the forest's heart at morn, 
Of hewing axes, crashing trees such blows 
Rustum and Sohrab on each other hail'd. 
And you would say that sun and stars took 

part 

In that unnatural conflict ; for a cloud 
Grew suddenly in Heaven, and dark'd the 

sun 

Over the fighters' heads ; and a wind rose 
Under their feet, and moaning swept the 

plain, 
And in a sandy whirlwind wrapp'd the 

pair. 
In gloom they twain were wrapp'd, and 

they alone ; 



For both the on-looking hosts on either 

hand 
Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was 

pure, 

And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. 
But in the gloom they fought, with blood 
shot eyes 
And laboring breath ; first Rustum struck 

the shield 
Which Sohrab held stiff out ; the steel- 

spik'd spear 
Rent the tough plates, but fail'd to reach 

the skin, 
And Rustum pluck'd it back with angry 

groan. 
Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rus- 

tum's helm, 
Nor clove its steel quite through ; but all 

the crest 
He shore away, and that proud horsehair 

plume, 

Never till now defil'd, sank to the dust ; 
And Rustum bow'd his head ; but then 

the gloom 

Grew blacker, thunder rumbled in the air, 
And lightnings rent the cloud ; and Ruksh, 

the horse, 
Who stood at hand, utter'd a dreadful 

cry; 

No horse's cry was that, most like the roar 
Of some pain'd desert-lion, who all day 
Has trail'd the hunter's javelin in his side, 
And comes at night to die upon the 

sand 
The two hosts heard that cry, and quak'd 

for fear, 

And Oxus curdled as it cross'd his stream. 
But Sohrab heard, and quail'd not, but 

rush'd on, 
And struck again ; and again Rustum 

bow'd 
His head ; but this time all the blade, like 



Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm, 

And in the hand the hilt remain'd alone. 

Then Rustum rais'd his head ; his dread 
ful eyes 

Glar'd, and he shook on high his menacing 
spear, 

And shouted : Rustum I Sohrab heard 
that shout, 

And shrank amaz'd : back he recoil'd one 
step, 

And scann'd with blinking eyes the ad 
vancing form ; 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 



And then he stood bewilder'd, and lie 

dropp'd 
His covering shield, and the spear pierced 

his side. 

t| He reel'd, and staggering back, sank to 
the ground ; 
And then the gloom dispers'd, and the 

wind fell, 
And the bright sun broke forth, and melted 

all 
The cloud ; and the two armies saw the 

pair ; 

Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet, 
And Sohrab, wounded, on the bloody sand. 

OXUS 

But the majestic river floated on, 
Out of the mist and hum of that low land, 
Into the frosty starlight, and there mov'd, 
Rejoicing, through the hush'd Chorasmian 

waste, 

Under the solitary moon ; he flow'd 
Right for the polar star, past Orgunje, 
Brimming, and bright, and large ; then 

sands begin 
To hem his watery march, and dam his 

streams, 
And split his currents ; that for many a 

league 

The shorn and parcelFd Oxus strains along 
Through beds of sand and matted rushy 

isles 

Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had 
In his high mountain-cradle in Pamere, 
A foil'd circuitous wanderer till at last 
The long'd-for dash of waves is heard, and 

wide 

[is luminous home of waters opens, bright 
tranquil, from whose floor the new- 

bath'd stars 
;rge, and shine upon the Aral Sea. 

FROM "BALDER DEAD" 

THE INCREMATION 

BUT now the sun had pass'd the height of 

Heaven, 
And soon had all that day been spent in 

wail ; 

But then the Father of the ages said : 
" Ye Gods, there well may be too much 

of wail ! 
Bring now the gather'd wood to Balder's 

ship ; 



Heap on the deck the logs, and build the 

pyre." 
But when the Gods and Heroes heard, 

they brought 

The wood to Balder's ship, and built a pile, 
Full the deck's breadth, and lofty; then 

the corpse 

Of Balder on the highest top they laid, 
With Nanna on his right, and on his left 
Hoder, his brother, whom his own hand 

slew. 

And they set jars of wine and oil to lean 
Against the bodies, and stuck torches near, 
Splinters of pine-wood, soak'd with turpen 
tine ; 
And brought his arms and gold, and all his 

stuff, 

And slew the dogs who at his table fed, 
And his horse, Balder's horse, whom roost 

he lov'd, 
And threw them on the pyre, and Odin 

threw 

A last choice gift thereon, his golden ring. 
The mast they fix'd, and hoisted up the 

sails, 

Then they put fire to the wood ; and Thor 
Set his stout shoulder hard against the 

stern 
To push the ship through the thick 

sand ; sparks flew 
From the deep trench she plough'd, so 

strong a God 

Furrow'd it ; and the water gurgled in. 
And the ship floated on the waves, and 

rock'd. 

But in the hills a strong east-wind arose, 
And came down moaning to the sea ; first 

squalls 
Ran black o'er the sea's face, then steady 

rush'd 
The breeze, and fill'd the sails, and blew 

the fire ; 
And wreath'd in smoke the ship stood out 

to sea. 

Soon with a roaring rose the mighty fire. 
And the pile crackled ; and between the 

logs 
Sharp quivering tongues of flame shot out, 

and leap'd, 
Curling and darting, higher, until they 

lick'd 
The summit of the pile, the dead, the 

mast, 
And ate the shrivelling sails ; but still the 

ship 



224 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



Drove on, ablaze above her hull with fire. 
And the Gods stood upon the beach, and 



And while they gaz'd, the sun went lurid 

down 
Into the smoke-wrapp'd seas, and night 

came on. 
Then the wind fell, with night, and there 

was calm ; 

But through the dark they watch'd the 
* burning ship 

Still carried o'er the distant waters on, 
Farther and farther, like an eye of fire. 
And long, in the far dark, blaz'd Balder's 

pile ; 
But fainter, as the stars rose high, it 

flar'd ; 
The bodies were cousum'd, ash chok'd the 

pile. 

And as, in a decaying winter-fire, 
A charr'd log, falling, makes a shower of 

sparks 

So with a shower of sparks the pile fell in, 
Reddening the sea around ; and all was 

dark. 
But the Gods went by starlight up the 

shore 

To Asgard, and sate down in Odin's hall 
At table, and the funeral-feast began. 
All night they ate the boar Serimner's 

flesh, 
And from their horns, with silver rimm'd, 

drank mead, 
Silent, and waited for the sacred morn. 

THE FORSAKEN MERMAN 

COME, dear children, let us away ; 
Down and away below I 
Now my brothers call from the bay, 
Now the great winds shoreward blow, 
Now the salt tides seaward flow ; 
Now the wild white horses play, 
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. 
Children dear, let us away ! 
This way, this way ! 

Call her once before you go 
Call once yet ! 

In a voice that she will know : 
" Margaret ! Margaret ! " 
Children's voices should be dear 
(Call once more) to a mother's ear ; 
Children's voices, wild with pain 
Surely she will come again ! 



Call her once and come away ; 

This way, this way ! 

" Mother dear, we cannot stay ! 

The wild white horses foam and fret." 

Margaret ! Margaret ! 

Come, dear children, come away down ; 
Call no more ! 

One last look at the white-wall'd town, 
And the little gray church on the windy 

shore ; 

Then come down ! 

She will not come though you call all day ; 
Come away, come away ! 

Children dear, was it yesterday 
We heard the sweet bells over the bay ? 
In the caverns where we lay, 
Through the surf and through the swell, 
The far-off sound of a silver bell ? 
Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, 
Where the winds are all asleep ; 
Where the spent lights quiver and gleam, 
Where the salt weed sways in the stream, 
Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round, 
Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground ; 
Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, 
Dry their mail and bask in the brine ; 
Where great whales come sailing by, 
Sail and sail, with unshut eye, 
Round the world for ever and aye ? 
When did music come this way ? 
Children dear, was it yesterday ? 

Children dear, was it yesterday 

(Call yet once) that she went away ? 

Once she sate with you and me, 

On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, 

And the youngest sate on her knee. 

She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended 

it well, 
When down swung the sound of a far-off 

bell. 
She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear 

green sea ; 
She said : " I must go, for my kinsfolk 

pray 

In the little gray church on the shore to 
day. 
'Twill be Easter-time in the world ah 

me ! 
And I lose my poor soul, Merman ! here 

with thee." 
I said : " Go up, dear heart, through the 

waves ; 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 




iy thy prayer, and come back to the kind 

sea-caves J " 
She smil'd, she went up through the surf 
in the bay. 

Children dear, was it yesterday ? 
Children dear, were we long alone ? 
"The sea grows stormy, the little ones 
^^ moan ; 
Long prayers," I said, " in the world they 

say ; 
Come ! " I said ; and we rose through the 

surf in the bay. 
We went up the beach, by the sandy down 
Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white- 

wall'd town ; 
igh the narrow pav'd streets, where 

all was still, 
L'o the little gray church on the windy 

hill. 
>m the church came a murmur of folk 

at their prayers, 
tut we stood without in the cold blowing 

airs. 
r e climb'd on the graves, on the stones 

worn with rains, 
Lnd we gaz'd up the aisle through the 

small leaded panes, 
sate by the pillar ; we saw her clear : 
Margaret, hist ! come quick, we are here ! 

heart," I said, " we are long alone ; 
sea grows stormy, the little ones moan." 
Jut, ah, she gave me never a look, 
''or her eyes were seal'd to the holy book ! 
id prays the priest : shut stands the door, 
/ome away, children, call no more! 
Dome away, come down, call no more ! 

Down, down, down ! 
Down to the depths of the sea ! 
She sits at her wheel in the humming town. 
Singing most joyfully. 
Hark what she sings : " O joy, O joy, 
For the humming street, and the child with 
its toy ! 

or the priest, and the bell, and the holy 
well; 

or the wheel where I spun, 

nd the blessed light of the sun ! " 

nd so she sings her fill, 

inging most joyfully, 

'ill the spindle drops from her hand, 
And the whizzing wheel stands still. 
She steals to the window, and looks at the 
sand, 



And over the sand at the sea ; 

And her eyes are set iii a stare ; 

And anon there breaks a sigh, 

And anon there drops a tear, 

From a sorrow-clouded eye, 

And a heart sorrow-ladeii, 

A long, lone sigh; 

For the cold strange eyes of a little Met* 

maiden 
And the gleam of her golden hair. 

Come away, away, children ; 
Come, children, come down ! 
The hoarse wind blows colder ; 
Lights shine in the town. 
She will start from her slumber 
When gusts shake the door ; 
She will hear the winds howling, 
Will hear the waves roar. 
We shall see, while above us 
The waves roar and whirl, 
A ceiling of amber, 
A pavement of pearl. 
Singing : " Here came a mortal, 
But faithless was she i 
And alone dwell for ever 
The kings of the sea." 

But, children, at midnight, 
When soft the winds blow, 
When clear falls the moonlight, 
When spring-tides are low ; 
When sweet airs come seaward 
From heaths starr'd with broom, 
And high rocks throw mildly 
On the blanch'd sands a gloom ; 
Up the still, glistening beaches, 
Up the creeks we will hie. 
Over banks of bright seaweed 
The ebb-tide leaves dry. 
We will gaze, from the sand-hills, 
At the white, sleeping town ; 
At the church on the hill-side 
And then come back down. 
Singing : There dwells a lov'd one, 
But cruel is she 1 
She left lonely for ever 
The kings of the sea," 

PHILOMELA 

HARK ! ah, the nightingale 
The tawny-throated ! 

Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a 
burst I 



226 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



What triumph ! hark ! what pain ! 
O wanderer from a Grecian shore, 
Still, after many years, in distant lauds, 
Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain 
That wild, uuquench'd, deep-sunken, old- 
world pain 
Say, will it never heal ? 
And can this fragrant lawn 
With its cool trees, and night, 
And the sweet, tranquil Thames, 
And moonshine, and the dew, 
To thy rack'd heart and brain 
Afford no balm ? 

Dost thou to-night behold, 

Here, through the moonlight on this English 

grass, 
The unfriendly palace in the Thracian 

wild? 

Dost thou again peruse 
With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes 
The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's 

shame ? 

Dost thou once more assay 
Thy flight, and feel come over thee, 
Poor fugitive, the feathery change 
Once more, and once more seem to make 

resound 

With love and hate, triumph and agony, 
Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale ? 
Listen, Eugenia 
How thick the bursts come crowding 

through the leaves ! 
Again thou nearest ? 
Eternal passion ! 
Eternal pain ! 

DOVER BEACH 

THE sea is calm to-night. 

The tide is full, the moon lies fair 

Upon the straits ; on the French coast the 
light 

Gleams and is gone ; the cliffs of England 
stand, 

Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil 
bay. 

Come to the window, sweet is the night- 
air ! 

Only, from the long line of spray 

Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd 
sand, 

Listen ! you hear the grating roar 

Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and 
fling, 



At their return, up the high strand, 
Begin, and cease, and then again begin, 
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring 
The eternal note of sadness in. 

Sophocles long ago 

Heard it on the ^Egaean, and it brought 

Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow 

Of human misery ; we 

Find also in the sound a thought, 

Hearing it by this distant northern sea. 

The sea of faith 

Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's 

shore 

Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd. 
But now I only hear 
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, 
Retreating, to the breath 
Of the night-winds, down the vast edges 

drear 
And naked shingles of the world. 

Ah, love, let us be true 

To one another ! for the world, which 

seems 

To lie before us like a land of dreams, 
So various, so beautiful, so new, 
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, 
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain ; 
And we are here as on a darkling plain 
Swept with conf us'd alarms of struggle and 

flight, 
Where ignorant armies clash by night. 



FROM 



EMPEDOCLES 
ETNA" 



ON 



AND you, ye stars, 

Who slowly begin to marshal, 

As of old, in the fields of heaven, 

Your distant, melancholy lines ! 

Have you, too, survived yourselves ? 

Are you, too, what I fear to become ? 

You, too, once liv'd ; 

You too mov'd joyfully, 

Among august companions, 

In an older world, peopled by Gods, 

In a mightier order, 

The radiant, rejoicing, intelligent Sons oi 

Heaven. 

But now, ye kindle 
Your lonely, cold-shining lights, 
Unwilling lingerers 
In the heavenly wilderness, 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 



227 



tor a younger, ignoble world ; 
md renew, by necessity, 
light after night your courses, 
n echoing, uuuear'd silence, 
Above a race you know not 
Uncaring and undelighted, 
Without friend and without borne ; 
eary like us, though not 
r eary with our weariness. 

Jo, no, ye stars ! there is no death with 

you, 

languor, no decay ! languor and death, 
jy are with me, not you ! ye are alive 
and the pure dark ether where ye ride 
Jrilliant above me ! And thou, fiery world, 
?hat sapp'st the vitals of this terrible 
mount 

whose charr'd and quaking crust I 
stand 
>u, too, briinmest with life ! the sea of 

cloud, 

heaves its white and billowy vapors up 
moat this isle of ashes from the world, 
ives ; and that other fainter sea, far down, 
'er whose lit floor a road of moonbeams 

leads 

Etna's Liparean sister-fires 
~ the long dusky line of Italy 

mild and luminous floor of waters 
lives, 

held-in joy swelling its heart ; I only,' 
r hose spring of hope is dried, whose spirit 

has fail'd, 
who have not, like these, in solitude 
[aintain'd courage and force, and in myself 
lurs'd an immortal vigor I alone 
im dead to life and joy, therefore I read 
all things my own deadness. 

THE BURIED LIFE 

JHT flows our war of mocking words, 

and yet, 

.-held, with tears mine eyes are wet ! 
feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll, 
fes, yes, we know that we can jest, 
" know, we know that we can smile ! 
it there 's a something in this breast, 
To which thy light words bring no rest, 
nd thy gay smiles no anodyne ; 
rive me thy hand, and hush awhile, 
ind turn those limpid eyes on mine, 
k.nd let me read there, love ! thy inmost 
soul. 



Alas ! is even love too weak 
To unlock the heart, and let it speak ? 
Are even lovers powerless to reveal 
To one another what indeed they feel ? 
I knew the mass of men cottceaTd 
Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd 
They would by other men be met 
With blank indifference, or with 



reprov'd ; 
I knew they liv'd and raov'd 
Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest 
Of men, and alien to themselves and yet 
The same heart beats in every human 

breast ! 

But we, my love ! doth a like spell be 
numb 

Our hearts, our voices ? must we too be 
dumb? 

Ah ! well for us, if even we, 
Even for a moment, can get free 
Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd ; 
For that which seals them hath been deep- 
ordain'd ! 

Fate, which foresaw 
How frivolous a baby man would be 
By what distractions he would be possess'd, 
How he would pour himself in every strife, 
And well-nigh change his own identity 
That it might keep from his capricious play 
His genuine self, and force him to obey 
Even in his own despite his being's law, 
Bade through the deep recesses of our 

breast 

The unregarded river of our life 
Pursue with indiscernible flow its way ; 
And that we should not see 
The buried stream, and seem to be 
Eddying at large in blind uncertainty, 
Though driving on with it eternally. 

But often, in the world's most crowded 

streets, 

But often, in the din of strife, 
There rises an unspeakable desire 
After the knowledge of our buried life ; 
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force 
In tracking out our true, original course ; 
A longing to inquire 

Into the mystery of this heart which beats 
So wild, so deep in us to know 
Whence our lives come and where thej 



228 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



And many a man in his own breast then 

delves, 

But deep enough, alas ! none ever mines. 
And we have been on many thousand lines, 
And we have shown, on each, spirit and 

power ; 

But hardly have we, for one little hour, 
Been on our own line, have we been our 
selves 

Hardly had skill to utter one of all 
The nameless feelings that course through 

our breast, 

But they course on for ever unexpress'd. 
And long we try in vain to speak and act 
Our hidden self, and what we say and do 
Is eloquent, is well but 't is not true ! 
And then we will no more be rack'd 
With inward striving, and demand 
Of all the thousand nothings of the hour 
Their stupefying power ; 
Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call ! 
Yet still, from time to time, vague and 

forlorn, 

From the soul's subterranean depth upborne 
As from an infinitely distant land, 
Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey 
A melancholy into all our day. 

Only but this is rare 

When a beloved hand is laid in ours, 

When, jaded with the rush and glare 

Of the interminable hours, 

Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, 

When our world-deafen'd ear 

Is by the tones of a lov'd voice caress'd 

A bolt is shot back somewhere in our 

breast, 

And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again. 
The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies 

plain, 
And what we mean, we say, and what we 

would, we know. 

A man becomes aware of his life's flow, 
And hears its winding murmur, and he sees 
The meadows where it glides, the sun, the 

breeze. 

And there arrives a lull in the hot race 
Wherein he doth for ever chase 
The flying and elusive shadow, rest. 
An air of coolness plays upon his face, 
And an unwonted calm pervades his breast. 
And then he thinks he knows 
The hills where his life rose, 

And the sea where it goes. 



MEMORIAL VERSES 

APRIL, 1850 

GOETHE in Weimar sleeps, and Greece, 
Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease. 
But one such death remain'd to come ; 
The last poetic voice is dumb 
We stand to-day by Wordsworth's tomb, 

When Byron's eyes were shut in death, 
We bow'd our head and held our breath. 
He taught us little ; but our soul 
Had felt him like the thunder's roll. 
With shivering heart the strife we saw 
Of passion with eternal law ; 
And yet with reverential awe 
W^e watch 'd the fount of fiery life 
Which serv'd for that Titanic strife. 

When Goethe's death was told, we said : 

Sunk, then, is Europe's sagest head. 

Physician of the iron age, 

Goethe has done his pilgrimage. 

He took the suffering human race, 

He read each wound, each weakness clear : 

And struck his finger on the place, 

And said : Thou attest here, and here ! 

He look'd on Europe's dying hour 

Of fitful dream and feverish power ; 

His eye plunged down the weltering strife, 

The turmoil of expiring life 

He said : The end is everywhere, 

Art still has truth, take refuge there I 

And he was happy, if to know 

Causes of things, and far below 

His feet to see the lurid flow 

Of terror, and insane distress, 

And headlong fate, be happiness. 

And Wordsworth ! Ah, pale ghosts, re 
joice ! 

For never has such soothing voice 
Been to your shadowy world convey'd, 
Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade 
Heard the clear song of Orpheus come 
Through Hades, and the mournful gloom. 
Wordsworth has gone from us and ye, 
Ah, may ye feel his voice as we ! 
He too upon a wintery clime 
Had fallen on this iron time 
Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears. 
He found us when the age had bound 
Our souls in its benumbing round ; 
He spoke, and loos'd our hearts in tears. 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 



229 



He laid us as we lay at birth 
On the cool flowery lap of earth, 
Smiles broke from us, and we had ease ; 
The hills were round us, and the breeze 
Went o'er the sun-lit fields again ; 
Our foreheads felt the wind and rain. 
Our youth return'd ; for there was shed 
On spirits that had long been dead, 
Spirits dried up and closely furl'd, 
The freshness of the early world. 

Ah ! since dark days still bring to light 
Man's prudence and man's fiery might, 
Time may restore us in his course 
Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force ; 
But where will Europe's latter hour 
Again find Wordsworth's healing power ? 
Others will teach us how to dare, 
And against fear our breast to steel ; 
Others will strengthen us to bear 
But who, ah ! who, will make us feel ? 
The cloud of mortal destiny, 
Others will front it fearlessly 
But who, like him, will put it by ? 
Keep fresh the grass upon his grave, 
O Rotha, with thy living wave ! 
Sing him thy best ! for few or none 
Hears thy voice right, now he is gone. 

GEIST'S GRAVE 

FOUR years ! and didst thou stay above 
The ground, which hides thee now, but four? 
And all that life, and all that love, 
Were crowded, Geist ! into no more ? 

Only four years those winning ways, 
Which make me for thy presence yearn, 
Call'd us to pet thee or to praise, 
Dear little friend ! at every turn ? 

That loving heart, that patient soul, 
Had they indeed no longer span, 
To run their course, and reach their goal, 
And read their homily to man ? 

That liquid, melancholy eye, 
From whose pathetic, soul-fed springs 
Seem'd urging the Virgilian cry, l 
The sense of tears in mortal things 

That steadfast, mournful strain, consol'd 

By spirits gloriously gay, 

And temper of heroic mould 

What, was four years their whole short day ? 



Yes, only four ! and not the course 
Of all the centuries yet to come, 
And not the infinite resource 
Of Nature, with her countless sum 

Of figures, with her fulness vast 
Of new creation evermore, 
Can ever quite repeat the past, 
Or just thy little self restore. 

Stern law of every mortal let ! 

Which man, proud man, finds hard to 

bear, 

And builds himself I know not what 
Of second life I know not where. 

But thou, when struck thine hour to go, 
On us, who stood despondent by, 
A meek last glance of love didst throw, 
And humbly lay thee down to die. 

Yet would we keep thee in our heart 
Would fix our favorite on the scene, 
Nor let thee utterly depart 
And be as if thou ne'er hadst beeu. 

And so there rise these lines of verse 
On lips that rarely form them now ; 
While to each other we rehearse : 
Such ways, such arts, such looks hadst thou I 

We stroke thy broad brown paws again, 
We bid thee to thy vacant chair, 
We greet thee by the window-pane, 
We hear thy scuffle on the stair. 

We see the flaps of thy large ears 
Quick rais'd to ask which way we go ; 
Crossing the frozen lake, appears 
Thy small black figure on the snow ! 

Nor to us only art thou dear 
Who mourn thee in thine English home J 
Thou hast thine absent master's tear, 
Dropp'd by the far Australian foam. 

Thy memory lasts both here and there, 
And thou shalt live as long as we. 
And after that thou dost not care ! 
In us was all the world to thee. 

Yet, fondly zealous for thy fame, 
Even to a date beyond our own 
We strive to carry down thy name, 
By mounded turf, and graven stcne. 



Buiit lacriuuc return ! 



23 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



We lay thee, close within our reach, 
Here, where the grass is smooth and warm, 
Between the holly and the beech, 
Where oft we watch'd thy couchant form, 

Asleep, yet lending half an ear 
To travellers on the Portsmouth road ; 
There build we thee, O guardian dear, 
Mark'd with a stone, thy last abode ! 



Then some, who through this garden pass, 
When we too, like thyself, are clay, 
Shall see thy grave upon the grass, 
And stop before the stone, and say : 

People who lived here long ago 

Did by this stone, it seems, intend 

To name for future times to know 

The dachs-hound, Geist, their little friend. 



POPE AT TWICKENHAM 

BEYOND a hundred years and more, 
A garden lattice like a door 

Stands open in the sun, 
Admitting fitful winds that set 
Astir the fragrant mignonette 

In waves of speckled dun : 

Sweet waves, above whose odorous flow 
Red roses bud, red roses blow, 

In beds that gem the lawn 
Enamell'd rings and stars of flowers, 
By summer beams and vernal showers 

From earth nutritious drawn. 

Within the broad bay-window, there, 
Lo ! huddled in his easy-chair, 

One hand upon his knee, 
A hand so thin, so wan, so frail, 
It tells of pains and griefs a tale, 

A small bent form I see. 

The day is fair, the hour is noon, 

From neighboring thicket thrills the boon 

The nuthatch yields in song : 
All drench'd with recent rains, the leaves 
Are dripping drip the sheltering eaves, 

The dropping notes among. 

And twinkling diamonds in the grass 
Show where the flitting zephyrs pass, 

That shake the green blades dry ; 
And golden radiance fills the air 
And gilds the floating gossamer 

That glints and trembles by. 

Yet, blind to each familiar grace, 
Strange anguish on his pallid face, 
And eyes of dreamful hue, 



Stent 

That lonely man sits brooding there, 
Still huddled in his easy-chair, 
With memories life will rue. 

Where bay might crown that honor'd 

head, 
A homely crumpled nightcap spread 

Half veils the careworn brows ; 
In morning-gown of rare brocade 
His puny shrunken shape array'd 

His sorrowing soul avows : 

Avows in every dropping line 
Dejection words not thus define 

So eloquent of woe ; 
Yet never to those mournful eyes, 
The heart's full-brimming fountains, rise 

Sweet tears to overflow. 

No token here of studied grief, 
But plainest signs that win belief, 

A simple scene and true. 
Beside the mourner's chair display'd, 
The matin meal's slight comforts laid 

Trimly the board bestrew. 

'Mid silvery sheen of burnish'd plate, 
The chill'd and tarnish'd chocolate 

On snow-white damask stands ; 
Untouch'd the trivial lures remain 
In dainty pink-tinged porcelain, 

Still ranged by usual hands. 

A drowsy bee above the cream 
Hums loitering in the sunny gleam 

That tips each rim with gold ; 
A checker'd maze of light and gloom 
Floats in the quaintly-litter'd room 

With varying charms untold. 



KENT ROSCOE CORY 



Why sits that silent watcher there, 
Still brooding with that face of care, 

That gaze of tearless pain ? 
What bonds of woe his spirit bind, 
What treasure lost can leave In-hind 

Such stings within his brain ? 

He dreams of one who lies above, 
He never more in life can love 
That mother newly dead ; 



He waits the artist-friend whose skill 
Shall catch the angel-beauty still 
Upon her features spread. 

A reverent sorrow fills the air, 

And makes a throne of grief the chair 

Where filial genius mourns : 
Death proving still, at direst need, 
Life's sceptre-wand a broken reed, 

Love's wreath a crown of thorns. 



JDiHiam tfatotodl ftotfcoc 



TO LA SANSCCEUR 

I KNOW not how to call you light, 

Since I myself was lighter ; 
Nor can you blame my changing plight 

Who were the first inviter. 

I know not which began to range 
Since we were never constant ; 

And each when each began to change 
Was found a weak remonstrant. 

But this I know, the God of Love 
Doth shake his hand against us, 

And scorning says we ne'er did prove 
True passion but pretences. 

THE MASTER-CHORD 

LIKE a musician that with flying finger 
Startles the voice of some new instrument, 
And, though he know that in one string are 

blent 

All its extremes of sound, yet still doth lin 
ger 

Among the lighter threads, fearing to start 
The deep soul of that one melodious wire, 
Lest it, uuanswering, dash his high desire, 



And spoil the hopes of his expectant heart ; 
Thus, with my mistress oft conversing, I 
Stir every lighter theme with careless voice, 
Gathering sweet music and celestial joys 
From the harmonious soul o'er which I fly ; 
Yet o'er the one deep master-chord I hover, 
And dare not stoop, fearing to tell I love 
her. 

EARTH 

SAD is my lot ; among the shining spheres 
Wheeling, I weave incessant day and night, 
And ever, in my never-ending flight, 
Add woes to woes, and count up tears on 

tears. 
Young wives' and new-born infants' hapless 

biers 

Lie on my breast, a melancholy sight ; 
Fresh griefs abhor my fresh returning light ; 
Pain and remorse and want fill up my yean. 
My happier children's farther-piercing eye* 
Into the blessed solvent future climb, 
And knit the threads of joy and hope and 

warning ; 

But I, the ancient mother, am not wise, 
And, shut within the blind obscure of time, 
Roll on from morn to night, and on from 

night to morning. 



MIMNERMUS IN CHURCH 

You promise heavens free from strife, 
Pure truth, and perfect change of will ; 

But sweet, sweet is this human life, 
So sweet, I fain would breathe it 
still ; 



Your chilly stars I can forego, 
This warm kind world is all I 



know. 



You say there is no substance here, 

One great reality above : 
Back from that void I shrink in fear, 

And child-like hide myself in lore. 



232 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



Show me what angels feel. Till then, 
I cling, a mere weak man, to men. 

You bid me lift my mean desires 
From faltering lips and fitful veins 

To sexless souls, ideal quires, 

Unwearied voices, wordless strains : 

My mind with fonder welcome owns 

One dear dead friend's remember' d tones. 

Forsooth the present we must give 
To that which cannot pass away ; 

All beauteous things for which we live 
By laws of time and space decay. 

But oh, the very reason why 

I clasp them, is because they die. 

HERACLEITUS 1 

THEY told me, Heracleitus, they told me 

you were dead, 
They brought me bitter news to hear and 

bitter tears to shed. 
I wept, as I remember'd how often you 

and I 
Had tir'd the sun with talking and sent him 

down the sky. 

And now that thou art lying, my dear old 

Carian guest, 
A handful of gray ashes, long, long ago at 

rest, 



Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightin 
gales, awake ; 

For Death, he taketh all away, but them 
he cannot take. 

A POOR FRENCH SAILOR'S 
SCOTTISH SWEETHEART 

I CANNOT forget my Joe, 

I bid him be mine in sleep ; 
But battle and woe have changed him so 

There 's nothing to do but weep. 

My mother rebukes me yet, 
And I never was meek before ; 

His jacket is wet, his lip cold set, 
He '11 trouble our home no more. 

Oh, breaker of reeds that bend ! 

Oh, quencher of tow that smokes ! 
I 'd rather descend to my sailor friend 

Than prosper with lofty folks. 

I 'm lying beside the gowan, 
My Joe in the English bay ; 

I 'm Annie Rowan, his Annie Rowan, 
He called me his Bien-Aime'e. 

I '11 hearken to all you quote, 

Though I 'd rather be deaf and free ; 

The little he wrote in the sinking boat 
Is Bible and charm for me. 



2turt)or Onfounti 



EPITAPH OF DIONYSIA 

HERE doth Dionysia lie : 
She whose little wanton foot, 
Tripping (ah, too carelessly ! ), 
Touch'd this tomb, and fell into 't. 

Trip no more shall she, nor fall. 
And her trippings were so few ! 
Summers only eight in all 
Had the sweet child wander'd through. 

But, already, life's few suns 
Love's strong seeds had ripen'd warm. 
All her ways were winning ones ; 
All her cunning was to charm. 



And the fancy, in the flower, 
While the flesh was in the bud, 
Childhood's dawning sex did dower 
With warm gusts of womanhood. 

Oh what joys by hope begun, 
Oh what kisses kiss'd by thought, 
What love-deeds by fancy done, 
Death to endless dust hath wrought ! 

Had the fates been kind as thou, 
Who, till now, was never cold, 
Once Love's aptest scholar, now 
Thou hadst been his teacher bold j 



After CaUimacbu*. 



COVENTRY PATMORE 



233 



But, if buried seeds upthrow 

Fruits and flowers ; if flower and fruit 

By their nature fitly show 

What the seeds are, whence they shoot, 



Dionysia, o'er this tomb, 
Where thy buried beauties be, 
From their dust shall spring and bloom 
Loves and graces like to thee. 



Cobcntcp fpatmore 



FROM "THE ANGEL IN THE 
HOUSE" 

THE DEAN'S CONSENT 

THE Ladies rose. I held the door, 

And sigh'd, as her departing grace 
Assur'd me that she always wore 

A heart as happy as her face ; 
And, jealous of the winds that blew, 

I dreaded, o'er the tasteless wine, 
What fortune momently might do 

To hurt the hope that she 'd be mine. 

Towards my mark the Dean's talk set : 

He praised my "Notes on Abury," 
Read when the Association met 

At Sarum ; he was pleas'd to see 
I had not stopp'd, as some men had, 

At Wrangler and Prize Poet ; last, 
He hop'd the business was not bad 

I came about : then the wine pass'd. 

A full glass prefaced my reply : 

I lov d his daughter, Honor ; I told 
My estate and prospects ; might I try 

To win her ? At my words so bold 
My sick heart sank. Then he : He gave 

His glad consent, if I could get 
Her love. A dear, good Girl ! she 'd 
have 

Only three thousand pounds as yet ; 
More by and by. Yes, his good will 

Should go with me ; he would not stir ; 

He and my father in old time still 
Wish'd I should one day marry her ; 
it God so seldom lets us take 
Our chosen pathway, when it lies 

[n steps that either mar or make 
Or alter others' destinies, 
mt, though his blessing and his pray'r 
Had help'd, should help, my suit, yet he 

Left all to me, his passive share 
Consent and opportunity. 



My chance, he hop'd, was good : I 'd . 

Some name already ; friends and place 
Appear'd within my reach, but none 

Her mind and manners would not grace. 
Girls love to see the men in whom 

They invest their vanities adniir'd ; 
Besides, where goodness is, there room 

For good to work will be desir'd. 
'T was so with one now pass'd away ; 

And what she was at twenty-two, 
Honor was now ; and he might say 

Mine was a choice I could not rue. 

% 

He ceas'd, and gave his hand. He had 
won 

(And all my heart was in my word) 
From me the affection of a son, 

Whichever fortune Heaven couferr'd ! 
Well, well, would I take more wine ? Then 

8 

To her ; she makes tea on the lawn 
These fine warm afternoons. And so 

We went whither my soul was drawn ; 
And her light-hearted ignorance 

Of interest in our discourse 
Fill'd me with love, and seem'd to enhance 

Her beauty with pathetic force, 
As, through the flowery mazes sweet, 

Fronting the wind that tint tn-M blithe, 
And lov'd her shape, and kiss'd her feet, 

Shown to their insteps proud and lithr, 
She approach'd, all mildness and young 
trust, 

And ever her chaste and noble air 
Gave to love's feast its choicest gust, 

A vague, faint augury of despair. 

HONORIA'S SURRENDER 

From little signs, like little stare, 
Whose faint impression on the sense 

The very looking straight at man, 
Or only seen by confluence ; 

From instinct of a mutual thought, 
Whence sanctity of manners flow'd j 



234 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



From chance unconscious, and from what 
Concealment, overconscious, show'd ; 

Her hand's less weight upon my arm, 
Her lovelier mien ; that match'd with 
this ; 

I found, and felt with strange alarm, 
I stood committed to my bliss. 

I grew assur'd, before I ask'd, 

That she 'd be mine without reserve, 
And in her unclaimed graces bask'd, 

At leisure, till the time should serve, 
With just enough of dread to thrill 

The hope, and make it trebly dear ; 
Thus loth to speak the word to kill 

Either the hope or happy fear. 

Till once, through lanes returning late, 

Her laughing sisters lagg'd behind ; 
And, ere we reach'd her father's gate, 

We paus'd with one presentient mind ; 
And, in the dim and perfum'd mist, 

Their coming stay'd, who, friends to me, 
And very women, lov'd to assist 

Love's timid opportunity. 

Twice rose, twice died my trembling word ; 

The faint and frail Cathedral chimes 
Spake time in music, and we heard 

The chafers rustling in the limes. 
Her dress, that touch'd me where I stood, 

The warmth of her confided arm, 
Her bosom's gentle neighborhood, 

Her pleasure in her power to charm ; 
Her look, her love, her form, her touch, 

The least seem'd most by blissful turn, 
Blissful but that it pleas'd too much, 

And taught the wayward soul to yearn. 
It was as if a harp with wires 

Was travers'd by the breath I drew ; 
And, oh, sweet meeting of desires, 

She, answering, own'd that she lov'd too. 

Honoria was to be my bride ! 

The hopeless heights of hope were scal'd ; 
The svimmit won, I paus'd and sigh'd, 

As if success itself had fail'd. 
It seem'd as if my lips approach'd 

To touch at Tantalus' reward, 
And rashly on Eden life encroach'd, 

Half-blinded by the flaming sword. 
The whole world's wealthiest and its best, 

So fiercely sought, appear'd, when found, 
Poor in its need to be possess'd, 

Poor from its very want of bound. 



My queen was crouching at my side, 

By love unsceptred and brought low, 
Her awful garb of maiden pride 

All melted into tears like snow ; 
The mistress of my reverent thought, 

Whose praise was all I ask'd of fame, 
In my close-watch'd approval sought 

Protection as from danger and blame j 
Her soul, which late I lov'd to invest 

With pity for my poor desert, 
Buried its face within my breast, 

Like a pet fawn by hunters hurt. 

THE MARRIED LOVER 

Why, having won her, do I woo ? 

Because her spirit's vestal grace 
Provokes me always to pursue, 

But, spirit-like, eludes embrace ; 
Because her womanhood is such 

That, as on court-days subjects kiss 
The Queen's hand, yet so near a touch 

Affirms no mean familiarness, 
Nay, rather marks more fair the height 

Which can with safety so neglect 
To dread, as lower ladies might, 

That grace could meet with disrespect, 
Thus she with happy favor feeds 

Allegiance from a love so high 
That thence no false conceit proceeds 

Of difference bridged, or state put by ; 
Because, although in act and word 

As lowly as a wife can be, 
Her manners, when they call me lord, 

Remind me 't is by courtesy ; 
Not with her least consent of will, 

Which would my proud affection hurt, 
But by the noble style that still 

Imputes an unattain'd desert ; 
Because her gay and lofty brows, 

When all is won which hope can ask, 
Reflect a light of hopeless snows 

That bright in virgin ether bask ; 
Because, though free of the outer court 

I am, this Temple keeps its shrine 
Sacred to Heaven ; because, in short, 

She 's not and never can be mine. 

Feasts satiate ; stars distress with height ; 

Friendship means well, 'but misses reach, 
And wearies in its best delight 

Vex'd with the vanities of speech ; 
Too long regarded, roses even 

Afflict the mind with fond unrest ; 
And to converse direct with Heaven 

Is oft a labor in the breast ; 



COVENTRY PATMORE 



2 35 



Whate'er the up-looking soul admires, 

Whute'er the senses' banquet be, 
Fatigues at last with vain desires, 

Or sickens by satiety ; 
But truly my delight was more 

In her to whom I 'in bound for aye 
Yesterday than the day before, 

And more to-day than yesterday. 

THE GIRL OF ALL PERIODS 

"AND even our women," lastly grumbles 
Ben, 

" Leaving their nature, dress and talk like 
men ! " 

A damsel, as our train stops at Five Ashes, 

Down to the station in a dog-cart dashes. 

A footman buys her ticket, " Third class, 
parly ; " 

And, in huge-button'd coat and "Cham 
pagne Charley " 

And such scant manhood else as use allows 
her, 

Her two shy knees bound in a single trouser, 

With, 'twixt her shapely lips, a violet 

Perch'd as a proxy for a cigarette, 

She takes her window in our smoking car 
riage, 

And scans us, calmly scorning men and 
marriage. 

Ben frowns in silence ; older, I know bet 
ter 

Than to read ladies 'havior in the letter. 

This aping man is crafty Love's devising 

To make the woman's difference more sur 
prising ; 

And, as for feeling wroth at such rebelling, 

Who 'd scold the child for now and then 
repelling 

Lures with " I won't ! " or for a moment's 
straying 

In its sure growth towards more full obey 
ing ? 

"Yes, she had read the 'Legend of the 
Ages,' 

And George Sand too, skipping the wicked 
pages." 

And, whilst we talk'd, her protest firm and 
perky 

Against mankind, I thought, grew lax and 
jerky ; 

And, at a compliment, her mouth's corn- 
pressure 

Nipp'd in its birth a little laugh of pleas- 



And smiles, forbidden her lips, as weakness 

horrid, 
Broke, in grave lights, from eyes and chin 

and forehead ; 
And, as I pusb'd kind 'vantage 'gainst the 

scorner, 

The two shy knees press'd shyer to the cor 
ner ; 

And Ben began to talk with her, the rather 
Because he found out that be knew her 

father, 

Sir Francis Applegarth, of Fenny Comnton, 
And danced once with her sister Maude at 

Brompton ; 
And then he star'd until he quite confus'd 

her, 
More pleas'd with her than I, who but ex- 

cus'd her ; 
And, when she got out, be, with sheepish 

glances, 
Said he 'd stop too, and call on old Sir 

Francis. 

FROM "THE UNKNOWN EROS" 

THE TOYS 

MY little son, who look'd from thought 
ful eyes 

And mov'd and spoke in quiet grown-up 
wise, 

Having my law the seventh time disobey'd, 

I struck him, and dismiss'd 

With hard words and unkiss'd, 

His Mother, who was patient, being dead. 

Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder 
sleep, 

I visited his bed, 

But found him slumbering deep, 

With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet 

From his late sobbing wet. 

And I, with moan, 

Kissing away his tears, left others of my 
own ; 

For, on a table drawn beside his head, 

He had put, within his reach, 

A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone, 

A piece of glass abraded by the beach, 

And six or seven shells, 

A bottle with bluebells 

And two French copper coins, ranged there 
with careful art, 

To comfort his sad heart. 

So when that night I pray'd 

To God, I wept, and said : 



236 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath, 

Not vexing Thee in death, 

And Thou rememberest of what toys 

We made our joys, 

How weakly understood 

Thy great commanded good, 

Then, fatherly not less 

Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the 

clay, 

Thou 'It leave Thy wrath, and say, 
"I will be sorry for their childishness." 

THE TWO DESERTS 

Not greatly mov'd with awe am 1 
To learn that we may spy 
Five thousand firmaments beyond our own. 
The best that 'a known 
Of the heavenly bodies does them credit 

small. 

View'd close, the Moon's fair ball 
Is of ill objects worst, 
A corpse in Night's highway, naked, fire- 

scarr'd, accurst ; 
And now they tell 
That the Sun is plainly seen to boil and 

burst 

Too horribly for hell. 
So, judging from these two, 
As we must do, 

The Universe, outside our living Earth, 
Was all conceiv'd in the Creator's mirth, 
Forecasting at the time Man's spirit deep, 
To make dirt cheap. 
Put by the Telescope ! 
Better without it man may see, 
Stretch'd awful in the hush'd midnight, 
The ghost of his eternity. 



Give me the nobler glass that swells to the 

eye 

The things which near us lie, 
Till Science rapturously hails, 
In the minutest water-drop, 
A torment of innumerable tails. 
These at the least do live. 
But rather give 
A mind not much to pry 
Beyond our royal-fair estate 
Betwixt these deserts blank of small and 

great. 

Wonder and beauty our own courtiers are, 
Pressing to catch our gaze, 
And out of obvious ways 
Ne'er wandering far. 

REGINA OELI 

SAY, did his sisters wonder what could 

Joseph see 

In a mild, silent little Maid like thee ? 
And was it awful, in that narrow house, 
With God for Babe and Spouse ? 
Nay, like thy simple, female sort, each one 
Apt to find Him in Husband and in Son, 
Nothing to thee came strange in this. 
Thy wonder was but wondrous bliss : 
Wondrous, for, though 
True Virgin lives not but does know, 
(Howbeit none ever yet confess'd,) 
That God lies really in her breast, 
Of thine He made His special nest ! 
And so 

All mothers worship little feet, 
And kiss the very ground they 've trod ; 
But, ah, thy little Baby sweet 
Who was indeed thy God ! 



IBaltct 



DAUGHTERS OF PHILISTIA 

FROM "OLRIG GRANGE" 

LADY ANNE DEWHURST on a crimson couch 
Lay, with a rug of sable o'er her knees, 
In a bright boudoir in Belgravia ; 
Most perfectly array'd in shapely robe 
Of sumptuous satin, lit up here and there 
With scarlet touches, and with costly lace, 
Nice-finger'd maidens knotted in Brabant ; 



And all around her spread magnificence 
Of bronzes, Sevres vases, marquetrie, 
Rare buhl, and bric-a-brac of every kind, 
From Rome and Paris and the centuries 
Of far-off beauty. All of goodly color, 
Or graceful form that could delight the 

eye, 

In orderly disorder lay around, 
And flowers with perfume scented the 

warm air. 



WALTER C. SMITH 



237 



Stately and large and beautiful was she 
Spite of her sixty summers, with an eye 
Train'd to soft languors, that could also 

Hash, 
Keen as a sword and sharp a black 

bright eye, 

Deep sunk beneath an arch of jet. She had 
I A weary look, and yet the weariness 
Seeni'd not so native as the worldliness 
Which blended with it. Weary and 

worldly, she 

Had quite resign'd herself to misery 
I In this sad vale of tears, but fully meant 
I To nurse her sorrow in a sumptuous fashion, 
And make it an expensive luxury ; 
I For nothing she esteem'd that nothing cost. 

Beside her, on a table round, inlaid 
With precious stones by Roman art de- 
si gn'd, 

Lay phials, scent, a novel and a Bible, 
| A pill box, and a wine glass, and a book 
i On the Apocalypse ; for she was much 
1 Addicted unto physic and religion, 
I And her physician had prescrib'd for her 
I Jellies and wines and cheerful Literature. 
The Book on the Apocalypse was writ 
By her chosen pastor, and she took the 

novel 

With the dry sherry, and the pills pre 
scrib'd. 

A gorgeous, pious, comfortable life 
Of misery she lived ; and all the sins 
Of all her house, and all the nation's sins, 
And all shortcomings of the Church and 

State, 

And all the sins of all the world beside, 
Bore as her special cross, confessing them 
Vicariously day by day, and then 
She comforted her heart, which needed it, 
With bric-a-brac and jelly and old wine. 

Beside the fire, her elbow on the mantel, 
And forehead resting on her finger-tips, 
Shading a face where sometimes loom'd a 

frown, 
And sometimes flash'd a gleam of bitter 

scorn, 
Her daughter stood; no more a graceful 

girl, 

But in the glory of her womanhood, 
Stately and haughty. One who might have 

been 

A noble woman in a nobler world, 
But now was only woman of her world ; 



With just enough of better thought to 

know 

It was not noble, and despise it all, 
And most herself for making it her all. 
A woman, complex, intricate, itivolv'd ; 
Wrestling with self, yet still by self sub 
dued ; 

Scorning herself for being what she was, 
And yet unable to be that she would ; 
Uneasy with the sense of possible good 
Never attain'd, nor sought, except in fit* 
Ending in failures ; conscious, too, of power 
Which found no purpose to direct its force, 
And so came back upon herself, and grew 
An inward fret. The caged bird some 
times diish'd 
Against the wires, and sometimes sat and 

pin'd, 
But mainly peck'd her sugar, and eyed her 

glass, 

And trill'd her graver thoughts away in 
song. 

Mother and daughter yet a childless 

mother, 
And motherless her daughter ; for the 

world 

Had gash'd a chasm between, impassable, 
And they had nought in common, neither 

love, 

Nor hate, nor anything except a name. 
Yet both were of the world; and she not 

least 
Whose world was the religious one, and 

stretch'd 
A kind of isthmus 'tween the Devil and 

God, 

A slimy, oozy mud, where mandrakes grew, 
Ghastly, with intertwisted roots, and things 
Amphibious haunted, and the leathern bat 
Flicker'd about its twilight evermore. 

THE SELF-EXILED 

THERE came a soul to the gate of Heaven 

Gliding slow 
A soul that was ransom'd and forgiven, 

And white as snow : 
And the angels all were silent. 

A mystic light beam'd from the face 

Of the radiant maid, 
But there also lay on its tender grace 

A mystic shade : 
And the angels all were silent 



238 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



As sunlit clouds by a zephyr borne 

Seem not to stir, 
So to the golden gates of morn 

They carried her : 
And the angels all were silent. 

" Now open the gate, and let her in, 

And fling it wide, 

For she has been cleans'd from stain of 
sin," 

St. Peter cried : 
And the angels all were silent. 

" Though I am cleans'd from stain of sin," 

She answer'd low, 
" I came not hither to enter in, 

Nor may I go : " 
And the angels all were silent. 

" I come," she said, " to the pearly door, 

To see the Throne 
Where sits the Lamb on the Sapphire Floor, 

With God alone : " 
And the angels all were silent. 

" I come to hear the new song they sing 

To Him that died, 
And note where the healing waters spring 

From His pierced side : " 
And the angels all were silent. 

" But I may not enter there," she said, 

." For I must go 
Across the gulf where the guilty dead 

Lie in their woe : " 
And the angels all were silent. 

" If I enter heaven I may not pass 

To where they be. 
Though the wail of their bitter pain, alas ! 

Tormenteth me : " 
And the angels all were silent. 

* If I enter heaven I may not speak 

My soul's desire 

For them that are lying distraught and 
weak 

In flaming fire : " 
And the angels all were silent. 

" I had a brother, and also another 

Whom I lov'd well ; 
What if, in anguish, they curse each other 

In the depths of hell ? " 
And the angels all were silent. 



" How could I touch the golden harps, 

When all my praise 
Would be so wrought with grief-full warps 

Of their sad days ? " 
And the angels all were silent. 

" How love the lov'd who are sorrowing, 

And yet be glad ? 
How sing the songs ye are fain to sing, 

While I am sad ? " 
And the angels all were silent. 

" Oh, clear as glass is the golden street 

Of the city fair, 
And the tree of life it maketh sweet 

The lightsome air : " 
And the angels all were silent. 

" And the white-rob'd saints with their 
crowns and palms 

Are good to see, 
And oh, so grand are the sounding psalms 1 

But not for me : " 
And the angels all were silent. 

"I come where there is no night," she said, 

" To go away, 
And help, if I yet may help, the dead 

That have no day." 
And the angels all were silent. 

St. Peter he turned the keys about, 

And answer M grim : 

" Can you love the Lord, and abide with 
out, 

Afar from Him?" 
And the angels all were silent. 

" Can you love the Lord who died for you, 

And leave the place 
Where His glory is all disclos'd to view, 

And tender grace ? " 
And the angels all were silent. 

" They go not out who come in here ; 

It were not meet : 
Nothing they lack, for He is here, 

And bliss complete." 
And the angels all were silent. 

" Should I be nearer Christ," she said, 

" By pitying less 
The sinful living or woeful dead 

In their helplessness ? " 
And the angels all were silent. 



W. C. SMITH PALGRAVE 



239 



Should I be liker Christ were I 

To love no more 
The lov'd, who in their anguish lie 

Outside the door ? " 
And the aiigels all were silent. 

11 Did He not hang on the curs'd tree, 

And bear its shame, 
And clasp to His heart, for love of me, 

My guilt and blame ? " 
And the angels all were silent. 

" Should I be liker, nearer Him, 

Forgetting this, 
Singing all day with the Seraphim, 

In selfish bliss ? " 
And the angels all were silent. 

The Lord Himself stood by the gate, 
And heard her speak 



Those tender words compassionate, 

Gentle and meek : 
And the angels all were silent 

Now, pity is the touch of God 

In human hearts, 
And from that way He ever trod 

He ne'er departs : 
And the angels all were silent 

And He said, " Now will I go with yon, 

Dear child of love, 
I am weary of all this glory, too, 

In heaven above : " 
And the angels all were silent 

" We will go seek and save the lost, 

If they will hear, 
They who are worst but need me most, 

And all are dear : " 
And the angels were not silent 



f rating urnec $algratoe 



THE ANCIENT AND MODERN 
MUSES 

THE monument outlasting bronze 

Was promis'd well by bards of old ; 
The lucid outline of their lay 
Its sweet precision keeps for aye, 
Fix'd in the ductile language-gold. 

But we who work with smaller skill, 

And less refin'd material mould, 
This close conglomerate English speech, 
Bequest of many tribes, that each 

Brought here and wrought at from of 
old, 

Residuum rough, eked out by rhyme, 

Barbarian ornament uncouth, 
Our hope is less to last through Art 
Than deeper searching of the heart, 
Than broader range of utter'd truth. 

One keen-cut group, one deed or aim 
Athenian Sophocles could show, 

And rest content ; but Shakespeare's 
stage 

Must hold the glass to every age, 
A thousand forms and passions glow 



Upon the world-wide canvas. So 
With larger scope our art we play ; 

And if the crown be harder won, 

Diviner rays around it run, 

With strains of fuller harmony. 



PRO MORTUIS 

WHAT should a man desire to leave ? 
A flawless work ; a noble life : 
Some music harmoniz'd from strife, 
Some finish'd thing, ere the slack hands at 

eve 
Drop, should be his to leave. 

One gem of song, defying age ; 

A hard-won fight ; a well-work'd farm; 
A law no guile can twist to bane ; 
Some tale, as our lost Thackeray's bright, 

or sage 
As the just Hallam's page. 

Or, in life's homeliest, meanest spot, 
With temperate step from year to year 
To move within his little sphere, 
Leaving a pure name to be known, or not, 
This is a true man's lot 



240 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



He dies : he leaves the deed or name, 
A gift forever to his land, 
In trust to Friendship's prudent hand, 
Round 'gainst all adverse shocks to guard 

his fame, 
Or to the world proclaim. 

But the imperfect thing or thought, 
The crudities and yeast of youth, 
The dubious doubt, the twilight truth, 
The work that for the passing day was 

wrought, 
The schemes that came to nought, 

The sketch half-way 'twixt verse and 

prose 

That mocks the finish'd picture true, 
The quarry whence the statue grew, 
The scaffolding 'neath which the palace rose, 
The vague abortive throes 

And fever-fits of joy or gloom : 
In kind oblivion let them be ! 
Nor has the dead worse foe than he 
Who rakes these sweepings of the artist's 

room, 
And piles them on his tomb. 

Ah, 't is but little that the best, 
Frail children of a fleeting hour, 
Can leave of perfect fruit or flower ! 
Ah, let all else be graciously supprest 
When man lies down to rest ! 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
1845 

GENTLE and grave, in simple dress, 
And features by keen mountain air 
Moulded to solemn ruggedness, 
The man we came to see sat there : 
Not apt for speech, nor quickly stirr'd 
Unless when heart to heart replied; 
A bearing equally remov'd 
From vain display or sullen pride. 

The sinewy frame yet spoke of one 
Known to the hillsides : on his head 
Some five-and-seventy winters gone 
Their crown of perfect white had shed: 
As snow-tipp'd summits toward the sun 
In calm of lonely radiance press, 
Touch'd by the broadening light of death 
With a serener pensiveness. 



O crown of venerable age ! 
O brighter crown of well-spent years i 
The bard, the patriot, and the sage, 
The heart that never bow'd to fears ! 
That was an age of soaring souls ; 
Yet none with a more liberal scope 
Survey'd the sphere of human things j 
None with such manliness of hope. 

Others, perchance, as keenly felt, 
As musically sang as he ; 
To Nature as devoutly knelt, 
Or toil'd to serve humanity : 
But none with those ethereal notes, 
That star-like sweep of self-control ; 
The insight into worlds unseen, 
The lucid sanity of soul. 

The fever of our fretful life, 
The autumn poison of the air, 
The soul with its own self at strife, 
He saw and felt, but could not share : 
With eye made clear by pureness, pierced 
The life of Man and Nature through ; 
And read the heart of- common things, 
Till new seein'd old, and old was new. 

To his own self not always just, 

Bound in the bonds that all men share, 

Confess the failings as we must, 

The lion's mark is always there ! 

Nor any song so pure, so great 

Since his, who closed the sightless eyes, 

Our Homer of the war in Heaven, 

To wake in his own Paradise. 

O blaring trumpets of the world ! 
O glories, in their budding sere ! 
O flaunting roll of Fame unfurl'd ! 
Here was the king the hero here ! 
It was a strength and joy for life 
In that 'great presence once to be ; 
That on the boy he gently smil'd, 
That those white hands were laid on me. 



A LITTLE CHILD'S HYMN 

FOR NIGHT AND MORNING 

THOU that once, on mother's knee, 
Wast a little one like me, 
When I wake or go to bed 
Lay thy hands about my head : 
Let me feel thee very near, 
Jesus Christ, our Saviour dear. 



PALGRAVE HUXLEY 



241 



Be beside me in the light, 
Close by me through all the night ; 
Make me gentle, kind, and true, 
Do what mother bids me do ; 
Help and dheer me when I fret, 
And forgive when I forget. 

Once wast thou in cradle laid, 
Baby bright in manger-shade, 
With the oxen and the cows, 
And the lambs outside the house : 
Now thou art above the sky : 
Canst thou hear a baby cry ? 

Thou art nearer when we pray, 
Since thou art so far away ; 
Thou my little hymn wilt hear, 
Jesus Christ, our Saviour dear, 
Thou that once, on mother's knee-, 
Wast a little one like me. 



A DANISH BARROW 

ON THE EAST DEVON COAST 

LIE still, old Dane, below thy heap ! 
A sturdy-back and sturdy-limb, 
Whoe'er he was, I warrant him 

Upon whose mound the single sheep 
Browses and tinkles in the sun, 
Within the narrow vale alone. 

Lie still, old Dane ! This restful scene 
Suits well thy centuries of sleep : 
The soft brown roots above thee creep, 



The lotus flaunts bis ruddy sheen, 
And, vain memento of the spot, 
The turquoise-eyed forget-me-not. 

Lie still i Thy mother-land herself 
Would know thee not again : no more 
The Raven from the northern shore 

Hails the bold crew to push for pelf, 

Through fire and blood and slaughtered 

kings 
'Neath the black terror of his wings. 

And thou, thy very name is lost I 
The peasant only knows that here 
Bold Alfred scoop'd thy flinty bier, 

And pray'd a foeman's prayer, and toil 
His auburn head, and said, " One more 
Of England's foes guards England's 
shore," 

And turn'd and pass'd to other feats, 
And left thee in thine iron robe, 
To circle with the circling globe, 

While Time's corrosive dewdrop eats 
The giant warrior to a crust 
Of earth in earth, and rust in rust 

So lie : and let the children play 
And sit like flowers upon thy grave 
And crown with flowers, that hardly 
have 

A briefer blooming-tide than they ; 
By hurrying years urged on to rest, 
As thou, within the Mother's breast. 



TENNYSON 

(WESTMINSTER ABBEY: OCTOBER 12, 1892) 
GIB DIESEN TODTEN MIR HERAUS 

(The Minster speaks) 

BRING me my dead ! 
To me that have grown, 
Stone laid upon stone, 
As the stormy brood 
Of English blood 
Has wax'd and spread 
And fill'd the world, 
With sails unf url'd ; 



! I 



With men that may not lie ; 
With thoughts that cannot die. 

Bring me my dead ! 

Into the storied hall, 

Where I have garner'd all 

My harvest without weed ; 

My chosen fruits of goodly seed , 

And lay him gently aown among 

The men of state, the men of song : 

The men that would not suffer wrong : 

The thought-worn chieftains of the mind 1 

Head-servants of the human kind. 



Don Carlos. 



242 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



Bring me my dead ! 

The autumn sun shall shed 

Its beams athwart the bier's 

Heap'd blooms : a many tears 

Shall flow ; his words, in cadence sweet and 

strong, 
Shall voice the full hearts of the silent 

throng. 
Bring me my dead ! 



And oh ! sad wedded mourner, seeking still 
For vauish'd hand clasp : drinking in thy 

fill 

Of holy grief ; forgive, that pious theft 
Robs thee of all, save memories, left : 
Not thine to kneel beside the grassy mound 
While dies the western glow ; and all around 
Is silence ; and the shadows closer creep 
And whisper softly : All must fall asleep. 



DORIS: A PASTORAL 

I SAT with Doris, the shepherd-maiden ; 
Her crook was laden with wreathed 

flowers : 
I sat and woo'd her, through sunlight 

wheeling 

And shadows stealing, for hours and 
hours. 

And she, my Doris, whose lap encloses 

Wild summer-roses of sweet perfume, 
The while I sued her, kept hush'd and 

hearken'd, 

Till shades had darken'd from gloss to 
gloom. 

She touch'd my shoulder with fearful finger; 
She said, " We linger, we must not stay : 
My flock 's in danger, my sheep will wan 
der ; 

Behold them yonder, how far they 
stray ! " 

I answer'd bolder, " Nay, let me hear you, 
And still be near you, and still adore ! 

No wolf nor stranger will touch one year 
ling : 
Ah ! stay, my darling, a moment more ! " 

She whisper'd, sighing, "There will be 
sorrow 

Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day ; 
My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded, 

I shall be scolded and sent away." 

Said I, denying, " If they do miss you, 
They ought to kiss you when you get 
home ; 



And well rewarded by friend and neighbor 
Should be the labor from which you 



" They might remember," she answer'd 

meekly, 
" That lambs are weakly, and sheep are 

wild; 

But if they love me, it 's none so fervent : 
I am a servant, and not a child." 

Then each hot ember glow'd within me, 
And love did win me to swift reply : 

" Ah ! do but prove me ; and none shall 

bind you, 
Nor fray nor find you, until I die." 

She blush'd and started, and stood await 
ing, 

As if debating in dreams divine ; 
But I did brave them ; I told her plainly 

She doubted vainly, she must be mine. 

So we, twin-hearted, from all the valley 
Did rouse and rally her nibbling ewes ; 

And homeward drave them, we two together, 
Through blooming heather and gleaming 
dews. 

That simple duty fresh grace did lend her, 
My Doris tender, my Doris true ; 

That I, her warder, did always bless her, 
And often press her to take her due. 

And now in beauty she fills my dwelling, 
With love excelling, and undefil'd ; 

And love doth guard her, both fast and 

fervent, 
No more a servant, nor yet a child. 



ARTHUR JOSEPH MUNBY 



243 



FROM "DOROTHY: A COUNTRY 
STORY" 

DOROTHY 

DOROTHY goes with her pails to the ancient 

well in the courtyard 
Daily at gray of mom, daily ere twilight 

at eve ; 
Often and often again she winds at the 

mighty old windlass, 
Still with her strong red arms landing 

the bucket aright : 
Then, her beechen yoke press'd down on 

her broad square shoulders, 
Stately, erect, like a queen, she with her 

burden returns : 
She with her burden returns to the fields 

that she loves, to the cattle 
Lowing beside the troughs, welcoming 

her and her pails. 
Dorothy who is she ? She is only a ser- 

vant-of-all-work ; 
Servant at White Rose Farm, under the 

cliff in the vale : 
Under the sandstone cliff, where martins 

build in the springtime, 
Hard by the green level meads, hard by 

the streams of the Yore. 
Oh, what a notable lass is our Dolly, the 

pride of the dairy ! 
Stalwart and tall as a man, strong as a 

heifer to work : 
Built for beauty, indeed, but certainly built 

for labor 

Witness her muscular arm, witness the 
grip of her hand ! 



Weakly her mistress was, and weakly the 

two little daughters ; 
But by her master's side Dorothy wrought 

like a son : 
Wrought out of doors on the farm, and 

labor'd in dairy and kitchen, 
Doing the work of two ; help and sup 
port of them all. 
Rough were her broad brown hands, and 

within, ah me ! they were horny ; 
Rough were her thick ruddy arms, 

shapely and round as they were ; 
Rough too her glowing cheeks ; and her 

sunburnt face and forehead 
Browner than cairngorm seem'd, set in 
her amber-bright hair. 



Yet 't was a handsome, face ; the brautiful 

regular features 
Labor could never spoil, ignorance could 

not degrade : 
And in her clear blue eyes bright gleams 

of intelligence lingered ; 
And on her warm red mouth, Love might 

have 'lighted and lain. 
Never an unkind word nor a rude unseemly 

expression 
Came from that soft red mouth ; nor in 

those sunny blue eyes 
Lived there a look that belied the frankness 

of innocent girlhood 
Fearless, because it is pure ; gracious, 

and gentle, and calm. 
Have you not seen such a face, among rural 

hardworking maidens 
Born but of peasant stock, free from our 

Dorothy's shame ? 
Just such faces as hers a countenance 

open and artless, 
Where no knowledge appears, culture, 

nor vision of grace ; 
Yet which an open-air life and simple and 

strenuous labor 
Fills with a charm of its own precious, 

and warm from the heart ? 
Hers was full of that charm ; and besides, 

was something ennobled, 
Something adoru'd, by thoughts due to a 

gentle descent : 
So that a man should say, if he saw her 

afield at the milking, 
Or with her sickle at work reaping the 

barley or beans, 
" There is a strapping wench a lusty lass 

of a thousand, 
" Able to fend for herself, fit for the 

work of a man ! " 
But if he came more near, and she lifted 

her face to behold him, 
"Ah," he would cry, "what a change t 

Surely a lady is here ! ' 
Yes if a lady be one who is gracious and 

quiet in all things, 
Thinking no evil at all, helpful wherever 

she can ; 
Then too at White Rose Farm, by the 

martins' cliff in the valley, 
There was a lady ; and she was but the 

servant of all. 

True, when she spoke, her speech was the 
homely speech of the country ; 



244 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



Rough with quaint antique words, pic 
turesque sayings of old : 
And, for the things that she said, they were 

nothing but household phrases 
News of the poultry and kine, tidings of 

village and home ; 
But there was something withal in her 

musical voice and her manner 
Gave to such workaday talk touches of 

higher degree. 
So too, abroad and alone, when she saw the 

sun rise o'er the meadows, 
Or amid golden clouds saw him descend 
ing at eve ; 
Though no poetic thought, no keen and 

rapturous insight, 
Troubled her childlike soul, yet she could 

wonder and gaze ; 
Yet she could welcome the morn for its 

beauty as well as its brightness 
And, in the evening glow, think not of 
supper alone. 

COUNTRY KISSES 

Curious, the ways of these folk of humble 

and hardy condition : 
Kisses, amongst ourselves, bless me, how 

much they imply ! 

Ere you can come to a kiss, you must 
scale the whole gamut of court 
ship 
Introduction first ; pretty attentions and 

words ; 
Tentative looks ; and at length, perhaps the 

touch of a finger ; 

Then the confession ; and then (if she al 
low it) the kiss. 
So that a kiss comes last 't is the crown 

and seal of the whole thing ; 
Passion avow'd by you, fondly accepted 

by her. 
But in our Dorothy's class, a kiss only 

marks the beginning : 
Comes me a light-hearted swain, think 
ing of nothing at all ; 
Flings his fustian sleeve round the ample 

waist of the maiden ; 
Kisses her cheek, and she laughingly 

thrusts him away. 

Why, 't is a matter of course ; every good- 
looking damsel expects it ; 
'T is but the homage, she feels, paid to her 
beauty by men : 



So that, at Kiss-in-the-Ring an innocent 

game and a good one 
Strangers in plenty may kiss : nay, she 
pursues, in her turn. 

DOROTHY'S ROOM 

'T was but a poor little room : a farm- 
servant's loft in a garret ; 
One small window and door ; never a 

chimney at all ; 
One little stool by the bed, and a remnant 

of cast-away carpet ; 
But on the floor, by the wall, carefully 

dusted and bright, 
Stood the green-painted box, our Dorothy's 

closet and wardrobe, 
Holding her treasures, her all all that 

she own'd in the world ! 
Linen and hosen were there, coarse linen 

and home-knitted hosen ; 
Handkerchiefs bought at the fdir, aprons 

and smocks not a few ; 
Kirtles for warmth when afield, and frocks 

for winter and summer, 
Blue - spotted, lilac, gray ; cotton and 

woolen and serge ; 
All her simple attire, save the clothes she 

felt most like herself in 
Rough, coarse workaday clothes, fit for 

a laborer's wear. 
There was her Sunday array the boots, 

and the shawl, and the bonnet, 
Solemnly folded apart, not to be lightly 

assumed ; 
There was her jewelry, too : 't was a brooch 

(she had worn it this evening) 
Made of cairngorm stone really too 

splendid for her ! 
Which on a Martlemas Day Mr. Robert 

had bought for a fairing : 
Little she thought, just then, how she 

would value it now ! 
As for her sewing gear, her housewife, her 

big brass thimble, 
Knitting and suchlike work, such as her 

fingers could do, 

That was away downstairs, in a dresser- 
drawer in the kitchen, 
Ready for use of a night, when she was 

tidied and clean. 
Item, up there in the chest were her books ; 

" The Dairyman's Daughter ; " 
Ballads; "The Olney Hymns;" Bible 
and Prayer-book, of course : 



ARTHUR JOSEPH MUNBY 



4S 



That was her library ; these were the limits 

of Dorothy's reading ; 
Wholesome, but scanty indeed : was it 

then all that she knew ? 
Nay, for like other good girls, she had 

profited much by her schooling 
Under the mighty three Nature, and 

Labor, and Life : 
Mightier they than books ; if books could 

have only come after, 
Thoughts of instructed minds filtering 

down into hers. 
That was impossible now ; what she had 

been, she was, and she would be ; 
Only a farm-serving lass only a peas 
ant, I fear ! 

Well on that green-lidded box, her name 

was painted in yellow ; 
Dorothy Crump were the words. Crump ? 

What a horrible name ! 
Yes, but they gave it to her, because (like 

the box) 't was her mother's ; 
Ready to hand though of course she 

had no joy in the name : 
She had no kin and indeed, she never 

had needed a surname ; 
Never had used one at all, never had 

made one her own : 
Dolly " she was to herself, and to every 

one else she was " Dolly " ; 
'Nothing but " Dolly " ; and so, that was 

enough for a name, 
ms then, her great, green box, her one 

undoubted possession, 
Stood where it was ; like her, " never 

went nowhere " at all ; 
r aited, perhaps, as of old, some beautiful 

Florentine bride-chest, 
Till, in the fulness of time, He, the Be 
loved, appears. 
fas there naught else in her room ? nothing 

handy for washing or dressing ? 
Yes ; on a plain deal stand, basin, and 

ewer, and dish : 
of them empty, unused ; for the sink 

was the place of her toilet ; 
Save on a Sunday and then, she too 

could dress at her ease ; 
i, by the little sidewall of the diamonded 

dormer-window 
She at a sixpenny glass brush' d out her 

bonny bright hair, 
what a poor little room ! Would you 

like to sleep in it, ladies ? 



Innocence sleeps there unharm'd ; Honor, 

and Beauty, and Peace 
Love, too, has corae ; and with these, even 

dungeons were easily cheerful ; 
But, for our Dorothy's room, it U no 

dungeon at all. 
No! through the latticed panes of the 

diamonded dormer-window 
Dorothy looks on a world free and fa 
miliar and fair : 
Looks on the fair farm-yard, where the 

poultry and cattle she lives with 
Bellow and cackle and low music de 
lightful to her ; 

Looks on the fragrant fields, with cloud- 
shadows flying above them, 
Singing of birds in the air, woodlands 

and waters around. 
She in those fragrant meads has wrought, 

every year of her girlhood ; 
Over those purple lands she, too, has 

follow'd the plough ; 
And, like a heifer afield, or a lamb that is 

yean'd in the meadows, 
She, to herself and to us, seems like a 
part of it all. 

BEAUTY AT THE PLOUGH 

Thus then, one beautiful day, in the sweet, 

cool air of October, 
High up on Breakheart Field, under the 

skirts of the wood, 
Dolly was ploughing : she wore (why did 

I not sooner descril>e it?) 
Just such a dress as they all all the 

farm-servants around ; 
Only, it seem'd to be hers by a right divine 

and a fitness 
Color and pattern and shape suited so 

aptly to her. 

First, on her well-set head a lilac hood- 
bonnet of cotton, 
Framing her amberbright hair, shading 

her neck from the sun ; 
Then, on her shoulders a shawl ; a coarse 

red kerchief of woolen, 
Matching the glow of her cheeks, lighting 

her berry-brown skin ; 
Then came a blue cotton frock dark blue, 

and spotted with yellow 
Sleev'd to the elbows alone, leaving her 

bonny arms bare ; 

So that those ruddy brown arms, with the 
dim, dull blue for a background 



246 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



Seein'd not so rough as they were 

softer in color and grain. 
All round her ample waist her frock was 

gather'd and kilted, 
Showing her kirtle, that hung down to 

the calf of the leg : 
Lancashire linsey it was, with bands of 

various color 
Striped on a blue-gray ground : sober, 

and modest, and warm ; 
Showing her stout firm legs, made stouter 

by home-knitted stockings ; 
Ending in strong laced boots, such as a 

ploughman should wear : 
Big solid ironshod boots, that added an 

inch to her stature ; 
Studded with nails underneath, shoed 

like a horse, at the heels. 
After a day at plough, all clotted with 

earth from the furrows, 
Oh, how unlike were her boots, Rosa 
Matilda, to yours ! 

FLOS FLORUM 

OXE only rose our village maiden wore ; 
Upon her breast she wore it, in that part 
Where many a throbbing pulse doth heave 

and start 
At the mere thought of Love and his sweet 

lore. 

No polish'd gems hath she, no moulded ore, 
Nor any other masterpiece of art : 
She hath but Nature's masterpiece, her 

heart ; 

And that show'd ruddy as the rose she bore 
Because that he, who sought for steadfast 
ness 

Vainly in other maids, had found it bare 
Under the eyelids of this maiden fair, 
Under the folds of her most simple dress. 
She let him find it ; for she lov'd him, too, 
As he lov'd her : and all this tale is true. 

SWEET NATURE'S VOICE 
FROM "SUSAN: A POEM OF DEGREES" 

HER Master gave the signal, with a look : 

Then, timidly as if afraid, she took 

In her rough hands the Laureate's dainty 

book, 
And straight began. But when she did 

begin, 
Her own mute sense of poesy within 



Broke forth to hail the poet, and to greet 
His graceful fancies and the accents sweet 
In which they are express'd. Oh, lately 

lost, 

Long loved, long honor'd, and whose Cap 
tain's post 

No living bard is competent to fill 
How strange, to the deep heart that now is 

still, 

And to the vanish'd hand, and to the ear 
Whose soft melodious measures are so dear 
To us who cannot rival them how strange, 
If thou, the lord of such a various range, 
Hadst heard this new voice telling Arden's 

tale! 
For this was no prim maiden, scant and 

pale, 

Full of weak sentiment, and thin delight 
111 pretty rhymes, who mars the resonant 

might 

Of noble verse with arts rhetorical 
And simulated frenzy : not at all ! 
This was a peasant woman ; large and 

strong, 

Redhanded, ignorant, unused to song 
Accustom'd rather to the rudest prose. 
And yet, there lived within her rustic clothes 
A heart as true as Arden's ; and a brain, 
Keener than his, that counts it false and vain 
To seem aught else than simply what she is. 
How singular, her faculty of bliss ! 
Bliss in her servile work ; bliss deep and 

full 

In things beyond the vision of the dull, 
Whate'er their rank : things beautiful as 

these 

Sonorous lines and solemn harmonies 
Suiting the tale they tell of ; bliss in love 
Ah, chiefly that ! which lifts her soul above 
Its common life, and gives to labors coarse 
Such fervor of imaginative force 
As makes a passion of her basest toil. 

Surely this servant-dress was but a foil 
To her more lofty being ! As she read, 
Her accent was as pure, and all she said 
As full of interest and of varied grace 
As were the changeful moods, that o'er her 

face 

Pass'd, like swift clouds across a windy sky, 
At each sad stage of Enoch's history. 
Such ease, such pathos, such abandonment | 
To what she utter'd, moulded as she went 
Her soft sweet voice, and with such self- 
control 
Did she, interpreting the poet's soul, 



MUNBY ISA CRAIG KNOX EDWIN ARNOLD 



247 



Bridle her own, that when the tale was done 
I look'd at her, amaz'd : she seem'd like one 
Who from some sphere of music had come 

down, 
And donn'd the white cap and the cotton 

gown 



As if to show how much of skill and art 
May dwell uuthought of, in the humblest 

heart. 

Yet there was no great mystery to tell j 
She felt it deeply, so she read it weli 



Craig Jfnoj: 



THE WOODRUFFE 



THOU art the flower of grief to me, 

'T is in thy flavor ! 
Thou keepest the scent of memory, 

A sickly savor. 

In the moonlight, under the orchard tree, 
Thou wert pluck'd and given to me, 

For a love favor. 


In the moonlight, under the orchard tree, 

Ah, cruel flower ! 
Thou wert pluck'd and given to me, 

While a fruitless shower 
Of blossoms rain'd on the ground where grew 
The woodruffe bed all wet with dew, 

In the witching hour. 

Under the orchard tree that night 

Thy scent was sweetness, 
And thou, with thy small star clusters bright 

Of pure completeness, 
Shedding a pearly lustre bright, 
Seem'd, as I gaz'd in the meek moonlight, 

A gift of meetness. 



" It keeps the scent for years," said be, 

(And thou hast kept it) ; 
" And when you scent it, think of me." 
(He could not mean thus bitterly.) 

Ah ! I had swept it 
Into the dust where dead things rot, 
Had I then believ'd his love was not 

What I have wept it. 

Between the leaves of this holy book, 

flower undying ! 

A worthless and wither'd weed in look, 

1 keep thee lying. 

The bloom of my life with thee was pluck'd, 
And a close-press'd grief its sap hath suck'd, 
Its strength updrying. 

Thy circles of leaves, like pointed spears, 

My heart pierce often ; 
They enter, it inly bleeds, no tears 

The hid wounds soften ; 
Yet one will I ask to bury thee 
In the soft white folds of my shroud with 
me, 

Ere they close my coffin. 



<ettoin SErnolfc 



'ROM '< THE LIGHT OF ASIA" 

NIRVANA 

Books say well, my Brothers ! each 
man's life 
The outcome of his former living is ; 
bygone wrongs bring forth sorrows and 

woes, 
The bygone right breeds bliss. 

it which ye sow ye reap. See yonder 

fields ! 
The sesamum was sesamum, the corn 



Was com. The Silence and the Darkness 

knew! 
So is a man's fate born. 

He cometh, reaper of the things he sow'd, 
Sesamum, corn, so much cast in past 

birth; 
And so much weed and poison-stuff, which 



mar 



Him and the aching earth. 



If he shall labor rightly, rooting these, 
And iil.iii tin? wholesome seedlings w 



And planting wholesome 
they grew, 



igs where 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



Fruitful and fair and clean the ground 

shall be, 
And rich the harvest due. 

If he who liveth, learning whence woe 
springs, 

Endureth patiently, striving to pay 
His utmost debt for ancient evils done 

In Love and Truth alway ; 

If making none to lack, he thoroughly purge 
The lie and lust of self forth from his 
blood ; 

Suffering all meekly, rendering for offence 
Nothing but grace and good ; 

If he shall day by day dwell merciful, 
Holy and just and kind and true ; and 

rend 
Desire from where it clings with bleeding 

roots, 
Till love of life have end : 

He dying leaveth as the sum of him 
A life-count clos'd, whose ills are dead 

and quit, 
Whose good is quick and mighty, far and 

near, 
So that fruits follow it 

No need hath such to live as ye name life ; 

That which began in him when he began 
Is finish'd : he hath wrought the purpose 
through 

Of what did make him Man. 

Never shall yearnings torture him, nor sins 
Stain him, nor ache of earthly joys and 
woes 

Invade his safe eternal peace ; nor deaths 
And lives recur. He goes 

Unto NiRvAxA. He is one with Life 
Yet lives not. He is blest, ceasing to be. 

OM, MANI FADME, OM ! the Dewdrop slips 
Into the shining sea ! 

THE CALIPH'S DRAUGHT 

UPON a day in Ramadan 

When sunset brought an end of fast, 
And in his station every man 

Prepar'd to share the glad repast 
Sate Mohtasim in royal state, 

The pillaw smok'd upon the gold ; 



The fairest slave of those that wait 
Mohtasim's jewell'd cup did hold. 

Of crystal carven was the cup, 

With turquoise set along the brim, 
A lid of amber clos'd it up ; 

'T was a great king that gave it him. 
The slave pour'd sherbet to the brink, 

Stirr'd in wild honey and pomegranate, 
With snow and rose-leaves cool'd the 
drink, 

And bore it where the Caliph sate. 

The Caliph's mouth was dry as bone, 

He swept his beard aside to quaff : 
The news-reader beneath the throne 

Went droning on with ghain and kaj. 
The Caliph drew a mighty breath, 

Just then the reader read a word 
And Mohtasim, as grim as death, 

Set dowa the cup and snatch'd his sword. 



1 amratan shureefatee ! " 

" Speak clear ! " cries angry Mohtasim ; 
" Fe lasr ind' ilj min ulji," 

Trembling the newsman read to him 
How in Ammoria, far from home, 

An Arab girl of noble race 
Was captive to a lord of Roum ; 

And how he smote her on the face, 

And how she cried, for life afraid, 

" Ya, Mohtasim ! help, O my king ! " 
And how the Kafir mock'd the maid, 

And laugh'd, and spake a bitter thing, 
" Call louder, fool ! Mohtasim's ears 

Are long as Barak's if he heed 
Your prophet's ass ; and when he hears, 

He'll come upon a spotted steed ! " 

The Caliph's face was stern and red, 

He snapp'd the lid upon the cup ; 
"Keep this same sherbet, slave," he said, 

" Till such time as I drink it up. 
Wallah ! the stream my drink shall be, 

My hallow'd palm my only bowl, 
Till I have set that lady free, 

And seen that Roumi dog's head roll." 

At dawn the drums of war were beat, 
Proclaiming, " Thus saith Mohtasim, 

' Let all my valiant horsemen meet, 
And every soldier bring with him 

A spotted steed.' " So rode they forth, 
A sight of marvel and of fear ; 



EDWIN ARNOLD 



249 



Pied horses prancing fiercely north, 

Three lakhs the cup borne in the rear ! 

When to Ammoria he did win, 

He smote and drove the dogs of Roum, 
And rode his spotted stallion in, 

Crying, " Labbayki ! I am come ! " 
Then downward from her prison-place 

Joyful the Arab lady crept ; 
She held her hair before her face, 

She kiss'd his feet, she laugh'd and wept. 

She pointed where that lord was laid : 

They drew him forth, he whin'd for grace : 
Then with fierce eyes Mohtasim said 

" She whom thou smotest on the face 
Had scorn, because she call'd her king : 

Lo ! he is come ! and dost thou think 
To live, who didst this bitter thing 

While Mohtasim at peace did drink ? " 

Flash'd the fierce sword roll'd the lord's 

head; 

The wicked blood smok'd in the sand. 
[ Now bring my cup ! " the Caliph said. 
Lightly he took it in his hand, 
8 down his throat the sweet drink ran 
Mohtasim in his saddle laugh'd, 
cried, " Taiba asshrab alan I 
By God ! delicious is this draught ! " 

AFTER DEATH IN ARABIA 

[E who died at Azan senda 
lis to comfort all his friends : 

lithful friends ! It lies, I know, 
and white and cold as snow ; 
ye say, Abdallah 's dead ! " 
Beeping at the feet and head, 
can see your falling tears, 
can hear your sighs and prayers ; 
Tot I smile and whisper this, 
1 / am not the thing you kiss ; 

your tears, and let it lie ; 
was mine, it is not I." 

set friends ! What the women lave 
Jor its last bed of the grave, 
Is a tent which I am quitting, 
Is a garment no more fitting, 
Is a cage from which, at last, 
Like a hawk my soul hath pass'd. 
Love the inmate, not the room, 
The wearer, not the garb, the plume 



Of the falcon, not the bare 

Which kept him from these splendid stars. 

Loving friends ! Be wise, and dry 
Straightway every weeping eye, 
What ye lift upon the bier 
Is not worth a wistful tear. 
'T is an empty sea-shell, one 
Out of which the pearl is gone ; 
The shell is broken, it lies there ; 
The pearl, the all, the soul, is here. 
T is an earthen jar, whose lid 
Allah seal'd, the while it hid 
That treasure of his treasury, 
A mind that lov'd him ; let it lie I 
Let the shard be earth's once more. 
Since the gold shines in his store I 

Allah glorious ! Allah good ! 
Now thy world is understood ; 
Now the long, long wonder ends ; 
Yet ye weep, my erring friends, 
While the man whom ye call dead, 
In unspoken bliss, instead, 
Lives and loves you ; lost, 't is true, 
By such light as shines for you ; 
But in light ye cannot see 
Of unfulfill'd felicity, 
In enlarging paradise, 
Lives a life that never dies. 

Farewell, friends ! Yet not farewell 5 
Where I am, ye, too, shall dwell. 
I am gone before your face, 
A moment's time, a little space. 
When ye come where I have stepp'd 
Ye will wonder why ye wept ; 
Ye will know, by wise love taught, 
That here is all, and there is naught 
Weep awhile, if ye are fain,- 
Sunshine still must follow rain ; 
Only not at death, for death. 
Now I know, is that first breath 
Which our souls draw when we enter 
Life, which is of all life centre. 

Be ye certain all seems love, 
View'd from Allah's throne above ; 
Be ye stout of heart, and come 
Bravely onward to your home ! 
La Allah ilia Allah ! jre! 
Thou love divine I Thou love alway ! 

He that died at Azan gave 

This to those who made his grave* 



25 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



RAGLAN 

AH ! not because our Soldier died before 

his field was won ; 
Ah ! not because life would not last till 

life's long task were done. 
Wreathe one less leaf, grieve with less 

grief, of all our hosts that led 
Not last in work and worth approv'd, 

Lord Raglan lieth dead. 

His nobleness he had of none, War's Master 

taught him war, 
And prouder praise that Master gave than 

meaner lips can mar ; 
Gone to his grave, his duty done ; if farther 

any seek, 
He left his life to answer them, a soldier's, 

let it speak ! 

T was his to sway a blunted sword, to 
fight a fated field, 

While idle tongues talk'd victory, to strug 
gle not to yield ; 

Light task for placeman's ready pen to plan 
a field for fight, 

Hard work and hot with steel and shot to 
win that field aright. 

Tears have been shed for the brave dead ; 

mourn him who mourn'd for all ! 
Praise hath been given for strife well striven ; 

praise him who strove o'er all, 
Nor count that conquest little, though no 

banner flaunt it far, 
That under him our English hearts beat 

Pain and Plague and War. 

And if he held those English hearts too 

good to pave the path 
To idle victories, shall we grudge what 

noble palm he hath ? 
Like ancient Chief he fought a-front, and 

mid his soldiers seen, 
His work was aye as stern as theirs ; oh ! 

make his grave as green. 

They know him well, the Dead who died 

that Russian wrong should cease, 
Where Fortune doth not measure men, 

their souls and his have peace ; 
Ay ! as well spent in sad sick tent as they 

in bloody strife, 
For English Homes our English Chief gave 

what he had, his life. 



FROM "WITH SA'DI IN THE 
GARDEN " 

MAHMUD AND AYAZ : A PARAPHRASE 

ox SA'DI 

THEY mock'd the Sovereign of Ghaznin; 

one saith, 

" Ayaz hath no great beauty, by my faith ! 
A Rose that 's neither rosy-red nor fra 

The BulbuTs love for such astonisheth ! " 

This went to Mahmud's ears ; ill-pleas'd he 

sate, 

Bow'd on himself, reflecting ; then to that 
Replied : " My love is for his kindly 

nature, 
Not for his stature, nor his face, nor state I n 

And I did hear how, in a rocky dell, 
Bursting a chest of gems a camel fell ; 
King Mahmud wav'd his sleeve, permit 
ting plunder, 

But spurr'd his own steed onward, as they 
tell. 

His horsemen parted from their Lord amain, 
Eager for pearls, and corals, and such gain : 

Of all those neck-exalting courtiers 
None except Ayaz near him did remain. 

The King look'd back " How many hast 

thou won, 
CurPd comfort of my heart?" He an- 

swer'd " None ! 

I gallop'd up the pass in rear of thee ; 
I quit thee for no pearls beneath the sun ! " 

Oh, if to God thou hast propinquity, 
For no wealth heedless of His service be ! 
If Lovers true of God shall ask from God 
Aught except God, that 's infidelity. 

If thine eyes fix on any gift of Friend, 
Thy gain, not his, is thy desire's end : 
If thy mouth gape in avarice, Heaven's 

message 
Unto Heart's ear by that road shall not wend. 

SONG WITHOUT A SOUND 

THE Bulbul wail'd, " Oh, Rose ! all night I 

sing, 
And Thou, Beloved ! utterest not one 

thing." 



EDWIN ARNOLD 



Dear Bird !" she answer' d, "scent and 

blossoming 
Are music of my Song without a sound." 

The Cypress to the Tulip spake : " What 

bliss 
Seest thou in sunshine, dancing still like 

this?" 
*My cup," the Tulip said, " the wind's lips 

kiss ; 
Dancing I hear the Song without a 

souud." 

The gray Owl hooted to the Dove at mom, 
**Why art thou happy on thy jungle- 
thorn?" 
"Hearest thou not," she cooed, "o'er 

Earth's face borne 
This music of the Song without a sound ? " 

** Ah, Darweesh ! " moan'd a King, 

" Vainly I pray 

For Allah's comfort, kneeling day by day." 
** Sultan ! " quoth he, " be meek, and hear 
I alway 

The music of His Mercy without sound." 

Poet ! " a Queen sigh'd, " why alone to 
thee 

visions of that world we cannot see 
ot great nor rich?" "I borrow min 
strelsy," 

Smiling he said, "from Songs without a 
sound." 

Shinn-i-man ! dear Lover ! true and sweet, 
Ask no more if I love, nor kiss my feet ; 
But hear, with cheek against my bosom's 

beat, 
The music of the Song without a sound ! 



THE MUSMEE 

THE Mnsmee has brown velvet eyes 
Curtain'd with satin, sleepily ; 

You wonder if those lids would rise 
The newest, strangest sight to see ; 

But when she chatters, langhs, or plays 
Koto, biwa, or samisen, 




No jewel gleams with brighter rays 
Than flash from those dark lashes 



thru. 



The Musmee has a small brown face, 

" Musk-melon seed " its perfect shape : 
Jetty arch'd eyebrows ; nose to grace 

The rosy mouth beneath ; a nape, 
And neck, and chin, and smooth, soft cheeks 

Carv'd out of sun-burn'd ivory, 
With teeth, which, when she smiles or 
speaks, 

Pearl merchants might come leagues to 
see! 

The Musmee's hair could teach the night 

How to grow dark, the raven's wing 
How to seem ebon ! Grand the sight 

When, in rich masses, towering, 
She builds each high black-marble coil, 

And binds the gold and scarlet in ; 
And thrusts, triumphant, through the toil 

The Kanzashi, her jewell'd pin. 

The Musmee has wee, faultless feet, 

With snow-white tabi trimly deck'd, 
Which patter down the city street 

In short steps, slow and circumspect ; 
A velvet string between her toes 

Holds to its place th' unwilling shoe : 
Pretty and pigeon-like she goes, 

And on her head a hood of blue. 

The Musmee wears a wondrous dress 

Kimono, obi, imoji 
A rose-bush in Spring loveliness 

Is not more color-glad to see ! 
Her girdle holds her silver pipe, 

And heavy swing her long silk sleeves 
With cakes, love-letters, mikan ripe, 

Small change, musk-bag, and writing* 
leaves. 

The Musmee's heart is slow to grief, 

And quick to pleasure, dance, and song J 
The Musmee's pocket-handkerchief 

A square of paper ! All day long 
Gentle, and sweet, and debonair 

Is, rich or poor, this Asian lass : 
Heaven have her in its tender care, 

medctS gozarima* I l 



Japanese for " May it be well with thee I 



252 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



VERSAILLES 

(1784) 

IN Carnival we were, and supp'd that night 
In a long room that overlooked the Square, 
When that strange matter happ'd of which 

you ask. 

We rang all pleasure's carillon that week ; 
Feasts and rich shows, and hunting in the 

woods, 

Light love that liv'd on change, deep drink 
ing, mirth 

As mad as Nero's on the Palatine ; 
The women were as wild as we, and, like 
The King's, our money flew about in 

showers. 
They said, " The people starv'd " ; it could 

not be ; 

We spent a million on the Carnival. 
And now for fifty years gone by I have 

heard 
"The people starve" Why then do the 

useless beasts 
Gender so fast ? Less mouths, more bread ! 

For me, 

I do not care whether they live or die, 
Canaille the dunghill breeds, but Drurn- 

mond car'd, 
The young Scotch musketeer whose waking 

dream 

You wish to hear from me, who only live 
Of all our joyous company. I am old, 
My life burns like the thinnest flame, but 

then 

It was a glorious fire, and on that night 
I led the feast, and roof and table rang 
With revelry : till at the height of noise 
A sudden silence fell, and while we smil'd, 
Waiting for whom should break it, the 

great clock 
Struck three in the still air and a hush'd 

sound 
Like coming wind pass'd by, and in its 

breath 

I thought I heard, far off, a wail and roar 
As if a city perish'd at one stroke ; 
The rest heard not, but Drummond starting 

up 
And muttering " Death, Death and his 

troops are nigh," 
Strode to the window. Half asleep he 

seem'd, 



Pale as that madman Damiens on the day 
He met the torture and across the bar 
He lean'd, and saw the white square in the 

moon. 
Men mock'd, and let him be they knew 

his mood ; 

One of his Highland trances, so they said ; 
But I kept watch the grim gray North 

in him, 
Midst of our Gallic lightness, pleas'd me 

well. 
I watch'd and mark'd above his head the 

moon, 
That shone like pearl amid the western 

heaven, 

Suddenly swallow'd up by a vast cloud, 
With edges like red lightning, but the rest 
Of the sky and stars was clear, and the 

rushing noise v 

Now louder swell'd, like cataracts of rain. 
And then I saw how Drummond toss'd his 

arms 
High o'er his head, and, crying "Horror, 

horror," 
Fell like a stabb'd man prone upon the 

floor. 
We laid him on a couch and cried, " Speak 

speak, 
What is it, what have you seen ? " 

" I have seen Death," he said, 
" And Doom," and truly with his matted 

hair, 

And eyes which as he rose upon his hands 
Seem'd 'neath their cavern'd arches coals of 

fire, 
He look'd like a gaunt, shaggy mountain 

wolf 
Caught in a pit, and mad with rage and 

fear. 
" You heard," he said, " that sighing rush 

of wind 

And then the awful cry, far off, as if 
The world had groan'd and died I heard, 

and trance 

Fell on my brain, and in the trance I saw 
The square below me in the moonlight fill 
With nobles, dames, and maidens, pages, all 
The mighty names of France, and midst 

them walk'd 
The King and Queen, not ours, but those 

that come 
Hereafter, and I heard soft speech of love 






STOPFORD AUGUSTUS BROOKE 



2 53 



And laughter please the night when 

momently 
The moon went out, and from the darkness 

stream'd 

A hissing flood of rain that where it fell 
Changed into blood, and 'twixt the court 
yard stones 
Blood well'd as water from a mountain 

moss ; 
And the gay crowd, unwitting, walk'd in 

it: 

Bubbling it rose past ankle, knee, and waist, 
From waist to throat ; and still they walk'd 

as if 

They knew it not, until a fierce wind lash'd 
The crimson sea, and beat it into waves, 
And when its waves smote on their faces, 

then 
They knew and shriek'd, but all in vain ; 

the blood, 
Storming upon them, whelm'd and drown'd 

them all ; 

At which a blinding lightning like a knife 
Gash'd the cloud's breast, and dooming 

thunder peal'd. 

fwoke, and crying 'Horror* knew no 
more, 
've seen the fates of France ; the day of 
God 
- wcind vengeance is at hand ; take heed 

repent 
Leave me to rest." 

We laugh'd to hear him preach, 
And left him on the couch, where like a 

man 
Drunken he slept, but when he rose, his 

hue 
Was changed, a cloud was on his eyes, his 

mouth 
Was stern. He sang, he ruffled, lov'd no 

more, 

Provok'd no man, and went about like one 
Who can you think it ? thought there 

was a God 
Who, midst his court, car'd how his people 

liv'd. 
We all were doom'd, he said, and France 

was doom'd, 
He would not stay ! And so gave up his 

sword, 
ind went to Scotland, where in some grim 

tower 

[e lov'd and married fool ! a name 
less girl, 
made the peasants happy, I am told ; 



But we liv'd out our life, and met no 

doom ; 
And now I am old, and Louis, my good 

friend 
The Well-belov'd, is dead long since, and 

soon 
My time will come I The people starve, 

they say, 
And curse. I know they curse and hate us t 

Well, 
We will ride down and slay the mutinous 

dogs ; 

Why, yesterday my horses in the crowd 
Threw down a mother and a child, and 

splash'd 
A hideous dwarf, who shook his fist and 

curs'd ; 
I laugh'd, but as he curs'd with skill, I 

ask'd 
The ruffian's name " Marat," they said, 

"a leech, 

Who physics horses and the common herd, 
Brute healing brute the people's friend, 

and yet 
He takes our wages writes us down, but 

keeps 
A place in d'Artois' stable I" These are 

the scum 
That Drummond fear'd Artois shall flog 

the man. 

THE JUNGFRAU'S CRY 

I, VIRGIN of the Snows, have liv'd 

Uncounted years apart ; 
Mated with Sunlight, Stars and Heaven, 

But I am cold at heart. 

High mates I Ye teach me purity, 
And lonely thought and tmth ; 

But I have never liv'd, and yet 
I have eternal youth. 

Blow, tropic winds, and warm rains, fall, 

And melt my snowy crest ; 
Let soft woods clothe my shoulders 

Deep grass lie on my breast. 

And let me feed a thousand herds, 

And hear the tinkling bells, 
Till the brown chalets cluster close 

In all my stream-fed dells. 

So may I hear the sweep of scythes, 
And beating of the flails, 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



My maidens singing as they spin, 
And the voice of nightingales. 

And little children in their joy, 
And, where my violets hide, 

Soft interchange of lovers' vows, 
Sweet hymns at eventide. 

Alas ! cold Sunlight, Stars and Heaven, 

My high companions, call. 
The ice-clad life is pure and stern : 

I am weary of it all. 

SONGS FROM "RIQUET OF THE 
TUFT" 

QUEEN'S SONG 

YOUNG Sir Guy on proudly said, 
" Love shall never be my fate." 
" None can say so but the dead," 
Shriek'd the witch wife at his gate. 

" Go and dare my shadow'd dell, 
Love will quell your happy mood." 
Guyon, laughing his farewell, 
Rode into the faery wood. 

There he met a maiden wild, 
By a tree she stood alone ; 
When she look'd at him and smil'd, 
At a breath his heart was gone. 



In her arms she twin'd him fast, 
And, like wax within the flame, 
Melted memory of the past, 
Soul and body, name and fame. 

Late at night the steed came back, 

" Where 's our good knight ? " cried his 

men ; 

Far and near they sought his track, 
But Guyon no one saw again. 

PRINCE RIQUET'S SONG 

O LONG ago, when Faery-land 
Arose new born, King Oberon 
Walk'd pensive on the yellow strand, 
And wearied, for he liv'd alone. 

" Why have I none, he said, to love ? " 
When soft a wind began to fleet 
Across the moonlit sea, and drove 
A lonely shallop to his feet. 

Of pearl, and rubies red, and gold, 
That shell was made, and in it lay 
Titania fast asleep, and roll'd 
In roses, and in flowers of May. 

He wak'd her with a loving kiss, 
Her arms around him softly clung ; 
And none can ever tell the bliss 
These had when Faery-land was young. 



MARE MEDITERRANEUM 

A LINE of light ! it is the inland sea, 
The least in compass and the first in 

fame ; 

The gleaming of its waves recalls to me 
Full many an ancient name. 

As through my dreamland float the days of 

old, 
The forms and features of their heroes 

shine : 

I see Phoanician sailors bearing gold 
From the Tartessian mine. 

Seeking new worlds, storm-toss'd Ulysses 

ploughs 
Remoter surges of the winding main j 



And Grecian captains come to pay their 

vows, 
Or gather up the slain. 

I see the temples of the Violet Crown 
Burn upward in the hour of glorious 

flight ; 

And mariners of uneclips'd renown, 
Who won the great sea fight. 

I hear the dashing of a thousand oars, 

The angry waters take a deeper dye ; 
A thousand echoes vibrate from the shores 
With Athens' battle-cry. 

Again the Carthaginian rovers sweep, 
With sword and commerce, on from shore 
to shore ; 



JOHN NICHOL 



In visionary storms the breakers leap 
Roimd Syrtes, as of yore. 

Victory, sitting on the Seven Hills, 

Had gaiu'd the world when she had inas- 

ter'd thee ; 
Thy bosom with the Roman war -note 

thrills, 
Wave of the inland sea. 

Then, singing as they sail in shining ships, 
I see the monarch minstrels of Romance, 
And hear their praises murmur'd through 

the lips 
Of the fair dames of France. 

Across the deep another music swells, 

On Adrian bays a later splendor smiles ; 
Power hails the marble city where she 

dwells 
Queen of a hundred isles. 

Westward the galleys of the Crescent roam, 
And meet the Pisan ; challenge on the 

breeze, 

Till the long Dorian palace lords the foam 
With stalwart Genoese. 

But the light fades ; the vision wears 

away ; 

I see the mist above the dreary wave. 
Blow, winds of Freedom, give another day 
Of glory to the brave ! 

H. W. L. 

THE roar of Niagara dies away, 

The fever heats of war and traffic fade, 

While the soft twilight melts the glare of 

day 
In this new Helicon, the Muses' glade. 

The roof that shelter'd Washington's 

retreat, 

Thy home of homes, America, I find 
In this memorial mansion, where we greet 
The full-ton'd lyrist, with the gentle 
mind. 

Here have thy chosen spirits met and 

flower'd, 

Season on season, 'neath magnetic spells 
Of him who, in his refuge, rose-embower'd, 
Remote from touch of envious passion 
dwells. 



Here Concord's sage and Harvard's wit 

contend : 

The wise, the true, the learned of the land. 
Grave thoughts, gay fantasies together 

blend 

In subtle converse, 'neath his fostering 
hand. 

With other forms than those of mortal 

guest 
The house is haunted ; visions of the 

morn, 

Voices of night that soothe the soul to rest, 
Attend the shapes, by aery wand reborn ; 

Serene companions of a vanish'd age, 
Noiseless they tread the once familiar 

floors ; 

Or, later offspring of the poet's page, 
They throng the threshold, crowd the 
corridors. 

" Sweet Preciosa " beside the listening stair 
Flutters expectant while Victorian sings ; 

Evangeline, with cloistral eyes of prayer, 
Folds her white hands, in shade of angels' 
wings. 

Conquistadors of Castile pace the hall ; 
Or red-skinu'd warriors pass the challenge 

round ; 
Or Minuehaha's laughter, as the fall 

Of woodland waters, makes a silver 
sound. 

Thor rolls the thunders of his fiery vaunt, 
The answering battle burns in Olaf's 

eyes ; 
Or love-crown'd Elsie lures us with the 

chaunt 

That lull'd the waves, 'neath star-hung 
Genoan skies. 

Here grim-faced captains of colonial days 
Salute the builders of old German rhyme ; 

And choral troops of children hymn the 

praise 
Of their own master minstrel of all time. 

Fair shrine of pure creations ! linger long 
His bright example, may his fame 

increase : 

Discord nor distance ever dim his song, 
Whose ways are pleasantness, whose 
paths are peace. 



256 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



Nor Hawthorne's manse, with ancient moss 

bespread, 
Nor Irving's hollow, is with rest so rife 



As this calm haven, where the leaves are 

shed 
Round Indian summers of a golden life. 



frantig, 



of 



BEDTIME 

TlS bedtime ; say your hymn, and bid 

" Good-night ; 
God bless Mamma, Papa, and dear ones 

all." 
Your half-shut eyes beneath your eyelids 

fall, 

Another minute, you will shut them quite. 
Yes, I will carry you, put out the light, 
And tuck you up, although you are so 

tall! 
What will you give me, sleepy one, and 

call 

My wages, if I settle you all right ? 
I laid her golden curls upon my arm, 
I drew her little feet within my hand, 
Her rosy palms were joined in trustful bliss, 
Her heart next mine beat gently, soft and 

warm 

She nestled to me, and, by Love's command, 
Paid me my precious wages "Baby's 

Kiss." 



MEMORY 



I STILL keep open Memory's chamber : still 
Drink from the fount of Youth's perennial 

stream. 

It may be in old age an idle dream 
Of those dear children ; but beyond my will 
They come again, and dead affections thrill 
My pulseless heart, for now once more they 

seem 

To be alive, and wayward fancies teem 
In my fond brain, and all my senses fill. 
Come, Alice, leave your books ; 'tis I who 

call ; 
Bind up your hair, and teasing did you 

say 
Kissing that kitten ? Evey, come with 

me; 
Mary, grave darling, take my hand : yes, 

all ! 

I have three hands to-day ! A Holiday. 
A Holiday, Papa ? Woe 's me ! 't is Mem 

ory ! 



AT LAST 

LET me at last be laid 
On that hillside I know which scans the vale, 
Beneath the thick yews' shade, 
For shelter when the rains and winds pre 
vail. 

It cannot be the eye 
Is blinded when we die, 
So that we know no more at all 
The dawns increase, the evenings fall ; 
Shut up within a mouldering chest of wood 
Asleep, and careless of our children's good. 

Shall I not feel the spring, 
The yearly resurrection of the earth, 
Stir thro' each sleeping thing 
With the fair throbbings and alarms of 
birth, 



Calling at its own hour 
On folded leaf and flower, 
Calling the lamb, the lark, the bee, 
Calling the crocus and anemone, 
Calling new lustre to the maiden's eye, 
And to the youth love and ambition high ? 

Shall I no more admire 

The winding river kiss the daisied plain ? 

Nor see the dawn's cold fire 

Steal downward from the rosy hills again ? 

Nor watch the frowning cloud, 

Sublime with mutterings loud, 

Burst on the vale, nor eves of gold, 

Nor crescent moons, nor starlights cold, 

Nor the red casements glimmer on the 

hill 
At Yule-tides, when the frozen leas are 

still ? 



LEWIS MORRIS 



257 



Or should my children's tread 

Through Sabbath twilights, wheii the hymns 
are done, 

Come softly overhead, 

Shall no sweet quickening through my 
bosom run, 

Till all my soul exale 

Into the primrose pale, 

And every flower which springs above 

Bivathes a new perfume from my love ; 
I And I shall throb, and stir, and thrill be 
neath 

With a pure passion stronger far than 
death ? 

Sweet thought ! fair, gracious dream, 
Too fair and fleeting for our clearer view ! 
How should our reason deem 
That those dear souls, who sleep beneath 

the blue 

In rayless caverns dim, 
'Mid ocean monsters grim, 
Or whitening on the trackless sand, 
Or with strange corpses on each hand 
In battle-trench or city graveyard lie, 
Break not their prison-bonds till time shall 

die? 

Nay, 't is not so indeed : 
With the last fluttering of the falling breath 
The clay-cold form doth breed 
A viewless essence, far too fine for death ; 
And, ere one voice can mourn, 
>n upward pinions borne, 
By are hidden, they are hidden, in some 

thin air, 

Far from corruption, far from care, 
Where through a veil they view their 

former scene, 
Only a little touch'd by what has been. 

Touch'd but a little ; and yet, 
Conscious of every change that doth befall, 
By constant change beset, 
The creatures of this tiny whirling ball, 
Fill'd with a higher being, 
Dower'd with a clearer seeing, 
Risen to a vaster scheme of life, 
To wider joys and nobler strife, 
Viewing our little human hopes and fears 
As we our children's fleeting smiles and 
tears. 

Then, whether with fire they burn 

This dwelling-house of mine when I am fled, 



And in a marble urn 

My ashes rest by rav beloved dead, 

Or in the sweet cold earth 

I pass from death to birth, 

And pay kind Nature's life-long debt 

In heart's-ease and in violet 

In charnel-yard or hidden ocean wave, 

Where'er I lie, I shall not scorn my grave. 



SONG 

LOVE took my life and thrill'd it 

Through all its strings, 
Play'd round my mind and fill'd it 

With sound of wings, 
But to my heart he never came 
To touch it with his golden flame. 

Therefore it is that singing 

I do rejoice, 
Nor heed the slow years bringing 

A harsher voice, 

Because the songs which he has sung 
Still leave the uutouch'd singer young. 

But whom in fuller fashion 

The Master sways, 
For him, swift wiiig'd with passion, 

fleet the brief days. 
Betimes the enforced accents come, 
And leave him ever after dumb. 



ON A THRUSH SINGING IN 
AUTUMN 

SWEET singer of the Spring, when the new 

world 
Was fill'd with song and bloom, and the 

fresh year 
Tripp'd, like a lamb playful and void of 

fear, 
Through daisied grass and young leaves 

scarce unfurl'd, 
Where is thy liquid voice 
That all day would rejoice ? 
Where now thy sweet and homely call, 
Which from gray dawn to evening's chill 
ing fall 
Would echo from thin copse and tassell d 

brake, 
For homely duty tun'd and love's sweet 

sake? 



258 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



The spring-tide pass'd, high summer soon 
should come. 

The woods grew thick, the meads a deeper 
hue ; 

The pipy summer growths swell'd, lush and 
tall; 

The sharp scythes swept at daybreak 
through the dew. 

Thou didst not heed at all, 

Thy prodigal voice grew dumb ; 

No more with song mightst thou beguile, 

She sitting on her speckled eggs the while, 

Thy mate's long vigil as the slow days went, 

Solacing her with lays of measureless con 
tent. 

Nay, nay, thy voice was Duty's, nor would 

dare 
Sing were Love fled, though still the world 

were fair ; 
The summer wax'd and wan'd, the nights 

grew cold, 

The sheep were thick within the wattled fold, 
The woods began to moan, 
Dumb wert thou and alone ; 
Yet now, when leaves are sere, thy ancient 

note 
Comes low and halting from thy doubtful 

throat. 



Oh, lonely loveless voice, what dost thou 

here 
In the deep silence of the fading year ? 

Thus do I read answer of thy song : 

" I sang when winds blew chilly all day 

long ; 

I sang because hope came and joy was near p 
I sang a little while, I made good cheer ; 
In summer's cloudless day 
My music died away ; 
But now the hope and glory of the year 
Are dead and gone, a little while I sing 
Songs of regret for days no longer here, 
And touch'd with presage of the far-off 

Spring." 

Is this the meaning of thy note, fair bird ? 
Or do we read into thy simple brain 
Echoes of thoughts which human hearts 

have stirr'd, 

High-soaring joy and melancholy pain ? 
Nay, nay, that lingering note 
Belated from thy throat 
" Regret," is what it sings, " regret, regret ! 
The dear days pass, but are not wholly 

gone. 

In praise of those I let my song go on ; 
'T is sweeter to remember than forget." 



i <*BiI6ert 



THE SANYASSI 

I HAVE subdued at last the will to live, 
Expelling nature from my weary heart ; 

And now my life, so calm, contemplative, 
No longer selfish, freely may depart. 

The vital flame is burning less and less ; 

And memory fuses to forgetfulness. 

M Sometimes I gaze on vacancy so long 
That all my brain grows vacant, and I 

feel 
That wondrous influence which doth make 

-me strong 

In resolution and unworldly zeal, 
Until, abstracted from all time and sense, 
I sink into eternal indolence. 

" And now I feel my inward life grow still, 

A being by itself, which fondly clings 
To consciousness which I can never kill, 



Yet is abstracted from all outwaii 

things, 

And slumbers often, and is overgrown ; 
The sense of self increases when alone. 

"I have subdued the will, but gain'd the 

power 

To dwell among the denizens of earth ; 
I spread my spirit over tree and flower, 
And human hearts, and things of meaner 

birth ; 

And thinking thus to give my soul away, 
I found it grew more conscious every day. 

" The simple crowds who hourly pass me by, 
I think have lately grown afraid of me ; 

There is some virtue in this sunken eye, 
For sometimes in my dreams I faintly 
see 

The workings of the spirit in the brain, 

And living floods that gush in every vein. 



HAMERTON NOEL 



* Now, as I am weary of this vain endeavor 

To lift my spirit to eternal sleep ; 
I seek the marble stairs, the sacred river, 
The liquid graves below, where, calm and 

deep, 
Beneath where that bright, silent water 

flows, 
Stretch wide the regions of divine repose." 

With thoughts like these the Indian suicide 
Dragg'd forth his stiff en'd limbs from 

his old lair ; 

He had no garment on his shrivelFd hide, 
He shunn'd the grove, and sought the 

solar glare, 

He never look'd aside, and his dead march 
Had for its goal a gate of one proud arch. 

It rose in sculptur'd splendor on the view 
From the surrounding foliage of dark 

green, 

Whose masses of broad shadow did subdue 
Its prominent light. The blue sky shone 

between. 

A crowd was on the river's sacred marge, 
And on the Ganges many a gaudy barge. 

Down to that river he descended now ; 

And as he press'd the last steps of the stair, 
A glance of pleasure from beneath his brow 

Fell on two jars of porous earthenware. 
He seiz'd them with his feeble hands, and 

tied 
One of them to his girdle on each side, 

And floated slowly from the crowded Ghaut ; 
And since no friendly hand was stretch'd 

to save, 
Found in those quiet waters what he 

sought 
A long rest and an honorable grave. 



THE SECRET OF THE NIGHT 
INGALE 

THE ground I walk'd on felt like air, 
Air buoyant with the year's young mirth ; 
Far, filmy, undulating fair, 
The down lay, a long wave of earth ; 
And a still green foam of woods rose high 
Over the hill-line into the sky. 



His faith was righteous, and his ending 

blest ; 
And now his soul enjoys eternal rest 



THE WILD HUNTSMEN 

" WILD huntsmen ? " * T was a flight of 
swans, 

But so invisibly they flew, 
That in his mind the pallid hind 

Could hear a bugle horn. 
Faintly sounds the airy note, 
And the deepest bay from the staghound's 

throat 
Like the yelp of a cur on the air doth float ; 

And hardly heard is the wild halloo 

On the straggling night-breeze borne ! 

They fly on the blast of the forest 

That whistles round the withered tree, 
But where they go we may not know, 

Nor see them as they fly. 
With hound and horn they ride away 
In the dreary twilight cold and gray, 
That hovers near the dying day; 

And the peasant hears but cannot see 

Those huntsmen pass him by. 

Hark ! 't is the goblin of the wood, 

Rushing down the dark hill-side ; 
With steeds that neigh and hounds that 
bay, 

All viewless sweeps the throng. 
And heavily where the fallow-deer feeds 
Clatter the hoofs of their hunting steeds, 
Like the mountain gale on the valley's 
meads ; 

Till far away the spectres ride, 

In distant lands along. 



$orf 

In meadowy pasture browse the kine, 
Thin wheat-blades color a brown plough- 

line ; 

Fresh rapture of the year's young joy 
Was in the unfolded luminous leaf, 
And birds that shower as they toy 
Melodious rain that knows not grief, 
A song-maze where my heart in 
Lay folded, like a chrysalis. 



26< 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



They allured my feet far into the wood, 
Down a winding 1 glade with leaflets wali'd, 
With an odorous dewy dark imbued ; 
Rose, and maple, and hazel call'd 
Me into the shadowy solitude ; 
Wild blue germander eyes enthralFd 
Made ine free of the balmy bowers, 
Where a wonderful garden-party of flow 
ers, 

Laughing sisterhood under the trees, 
Dancing merrily, play'd with the bees ; 
Anemone, starwort, bands in white, 
Like girls for a first communion dight, 
And pale yellow primrose ere her flight, 
Usher'd me onward wondering 
To a scene more fair than the court of a 

king. 

Ah ! they were very fair themselves, 
Sweet maids of honor, woodland elves ! 
Frail flowers that arrive with the cuckoo, 
Pale lilac, hyacinth purple of hue, 
And the little pink geranium, 
All smil'd and nodded to see me come ; 
All gave me welcome ; " No noise," they 

said, 

"For we will show you the bridal bed, 
Where Philomel, our queen, was wed ; 
Hush ! move with a tender, reverent foot, 
Like a shy light over bole and root ; " 
And they blew in the delicate air for flute. 

Into the heart of the verdure stole 
My feet, and a music en wound my soul ; 
Zephyr flew over a cool bare brow 
I am near, very near to the secret now ! 
For the rose-covers, all alive with song, 
Flash with it, plain now low and long ; 
Sprinkle a holy water of notes ; 
On clear air melody leans and floats ; 
The blithe-wing'd minstrel merrily moves, 
Dim bushes burn with mystical loves ! 

Lo ! I arrive ! immers'd in green, 
Where the wood divides, though barely 

seen, 

A nest in one of the blue leaf-rifts ! 
There over the border a bird uplifts 
Her downy head, bill'd, luminous-ey'd ; 
Behold the chosen one, the bride ! 
And the singer, he singeth by her side. 
Leap, heart ! be aflame with them ! loud, 

not dumb, 

Give a voice to their epithalamium ! 
Whose raptures wax not pale nor dim 
Beside the fires of seraphim. 



These are glorious, glowing stairs, 
In gradual ascent to theirs ; 
With human loves acclaim and hail 
The holy lore of the nightingale ! 



SEA SLUMBER-SONG 

SEA-BIRDS are asleep, 
The world forgets to weep, 
Sea murmurs her soft slumber-song 
On the shadowy sand 
Of this elfin land ; 
" I, the Mother mild, 
Hush thee, O my child, 
Forget the voices wild ! 
Isles in elfin light 
Dream, the rocks and caves, 
Lull'd by whispering waves, 
Veil their marbles bright, 
Foam glimmers faintly white 
Upon the shelly sand 
Of this elfin land ; 
Sea-sound, like violins, 
To slumber woos and wins, 
I murmur my soft slumber-song, 
Leave woes, and wails, and sins, 
Ocean's shadowy might 
Breathes good-night, 
Good-night ! " 



DYING 

THEY are waiting on the shore 
For the bark to take them home ; 
They will toil and grieve no more 5 
The hour for release hath come. 

All their long life lies behind, 
Like a dimly blending dream ; 
There is nothing left to bind 
To the realms that only seem. 

They are waiting for the boat, 
There is nothing left to do ; 
What was near them grows remote^ 
Happy silence falls like dew ; 
Now the shadowy bark is come, 
And the weary may go home. 

By still water they would rest, 
In the shadow of the tree ; 
After battle sleep is best, 
After noise tranquillity. 



RODEN NOEL 



261 



THE MERRY-GO-ROUND 



THE merry-go-round, the merry-go-round, 

the merry-go-round at Fowey ! 
They whirl around, they gallop around, man, 

woman, and girl, and Doy ; 
They circle on wooden horses, white, black, 

brown, and bay, 
To a loud monotonous tune that hath a 

trumpet bray. 
All is dark where the circus stands on the 

narrow quay, 
Save for its own yellow lamps, that illumine 

it brilliantly : 
Fainted purple and red, it pours a broad 

strong glow 
Over an old-world house, with a pillar'd 

place below ; 
For the floor of the building rests on bandy 

columns small, 

And the bulging pile may, tottering, sud 
denly bury all. 
But there upon wooden benches, hunch'd 

in the summer night, 
Sit wrinkled sires of the village arow, whose 

hair is white ; 
They sit like the mummies of men, with a 

glare upon them cast 
From a rushing flame of the living, like 

their own mad past ; 
They are watching the merry-make, and 

their face is very grave ; 
Over all are the silent stars ! beyond, the 

cold gray wave. 
And while I gaze on the galloping horses 

circling round, 
The men caracoling up and down to a weird, 

monotonous sound, 
I pass into a bewilderment, and marvel why 

they go ; 
It seems the earth revolving, with our vain 

to and fro ! 
For the young may be glad and eager, but 

some ride listlessly, 
And the old look on with a weary, dull, 

and lifeless eye ; 

I know that in an hour the fair will all be 
. gone, 

Stars shining over a dreary void, the Deep 

have sound alone. 
I gaze with orb sufl'us'd at human things 

that fly, 
And I am lost in the wonder of our dim 

destiny. . . . 



The merry-go-round, the merry-go-round, 
the merry-go-ronwl nt Kowey ! 

They whirl around, they gallop around, 
woman, and girl, and boy. 



LAMENT 

I AM lying in the tomb, love, 

Lying in the tomb, 

Tho' I move within the gloom, lovcu 

Breathe within the gloom ! 

Men deem life not fled, dear, 

Deem my life not fled, 

Tho' I with thee am dead, dear, 

I with thee am dead, 

O my little child ! 

What is the gray world, darling, 

What is the gray world, 

Where the worm lies curPd, darling, 

The deathworm lies curPd ? 

They tell me of the spring, dear ! 

Do I want the spring ? 

Will she waft upon her wing, dear, 

The joy-pulse of her wing, 

Thy songs, thy blossoming, 

my little child ! 

For the hallowing of thy smile, love, 
The rainbow of thy smile, 
Gleaming for a while, love, 
Gleaming to beguile, 
Replunged me in the cold, dear, 
Leaves me in the cold. 
And I feel so very old, dear, 
Very, very old ! 

Would they put me out of pain, dear, 
Out of all my pain, 
Since I may not live again, dear, 
Never live again ! 

1 am lying in the grave, love, 
In thy little grave, 

Yet I hear the wind rave, love, 

And the wild wave ! 

I would lie asleep, darling, 

With thee lie asleep, 

Unhearing the world weep, darling, 

Little children weep I 

O my little child I 



262 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



THE TOY CROSS 

MY little boy at Christmas-tide 

Made me a toy cross ; 
Two sticks he did, in boyish pride, 

With brazen nail emboss. 

Ah me ! how soon, on either side 

His dying bed's true cross, 
She and I were crucified, 

Bemoaning our life-loss ! 

But He, whose arms in death spread wide 

Upon the holy tree, 
Were clasp'd about him when he died 

Clasp'd for eternity ! 



"THAT THEY ALL MAY BE 
ONE" 

WHENE'ER there comes a little child, 
My darling comes with him ; 
Whene'er I hear a birdie wild 
Who sings his merry whim, 



Mine sings with him : 

If a low strain of music sails 

Among melodious hills and dales, 

When a white lamb or kitten leaps, 

Or star, or vernal flower peeps, 

When rainbow dews are pulsing joy, 

Or sunny waves, or leaflets toy, 

Then he who sleeps 

Softly wakes within my heart ; 

With a kiss from him I start ; 

He lays his head upon my breast, 

Tho' I may not see my guest, 

Dear bosom-guest ! 

In all that 's pure and fair and good, 

I feel the spring-time of thy blood, 

Hear thy whisper'd accents flow 

To lighten woe, 

Feel them blend, 

Although I fail to comprehend. 

And if one woundeth with harsh word, 

Or deed, a child, or beast, or bird, 

It seems to strike weak Innocence 

Through him, who hath for his defence 

Thunder of the All-loving Sire, 

And mine, to whom He gave the fire. 



it SUIfreti 



MEDITATIONS OF A HINDU 
PRINCE 

ALL the world over, I wonder, in lands 
that I never have trod, 

Are the people eternally seeking for the 
signs and steps of a God ? 

Westward across the ocean, and North 
ward across the snow, 

Do they all stand gazing, as ever, and what 
do the wisest know ? 

Here, in this mystical India, the deities 

hover and swarm 
Like the wild bees heard in the tree-tops, 

or the gusts of a gathering storm ; 
In the air men hear their voices, their feet 

on the rocks are seen, 
Yet we all say, " Whence is the message, 

and what may the wonders mean ? " 

A million shrines stand open, and ever the 

censer swings, 
As they bow to a mystic symbol, OP the 

figures of ancient kings ; 



And the incense rises ever, and rises the 
endless cry 

Of those who are heavy laden, and of cow 
ards loth to die. 

For the Destiny drives us together, like 

deer in a pass of the hills ; 
Above is the sky, and around us the sound 

of the shot that kills ; 
Push'd by a power we see not, and struck 

by a hand unknown, 
We pray to the trees for shelter, and press 

our lips to a stone. 

The trees wave a shadowy answer, and the 

rock frowns hollow and grirn, 
And the form and the nod of the demon 

are caught in the twilight dim ; 
And we look to the sunlight falling afar on 

the mountain crest, 
Is there never a path runs upward to a 

refuge there and a rest ? 



LYALL AUSTIX 



263 






The path, ah ! who has shown it, and which 
is the faithful guide ? 

The haven, ah ! who has known it ? for 
steep is the mountain side, 

Forever the shot strikes surely, and ever 
the wasted breath 

Of the praying multitude rises, whose an 
swer is only death. 

Here are the tombs of my kinsfolk, the 

fruit of an ancient name, 
Chiefs who were slain on the war-field, and 

women who died in flame ; 
They are gods, these kings of the foretime, 

they are spirits who guard our race : 
Ever I watch and worship ; they sit with a 

marble face. 

And the myriad idols around me, and the 
legion of muttering priests, 

The revels and rites unholy, the dark un 
speakable feasts ! 

What have they wrung from the Silence ? 
Hath even a whisper come 

Of the secret, Whence and Whither? 
Alas ! for the gods are dumb. 

Shall I list to the word of the English, who 
come from the uttermost sea ? 

"The Secret, hath it been told you, and 
what is your message to me ? " 



AT HIS GRAVE 

HUGHENDEN, MAY, 1 88 1 

LEAVE me a little while alone, 
Here at his grave that still is strown 

With crumbling flower and wreath ; 
The laughing rivulet leaps and falls, 
The thrush exults, the cuckoo calls, 

And he lies hush'd beneath. 

With myrtle cross and crown of rose, 
And every lowlier flower that blows, 

His new-made couch is dress'd ; 
Primrose and cowslip, hyacinth wild, 
Gather'd by monarch, peasant, child, 

A nation's grief attest. 

I stood not with the mournful crowd 
That hither came when round his shroud 
Pious farewells were said. 



It is nought but the wide-world story how 
the earth and the heavens began, 

How the gods are glad and angry, and a 
Deity once was man. 

I had thought, " Perchance in the cities 

where the rulers of India dwell, 
Whose orders Hash from the far land, who 

girdle the earth with a spell, 
They have fathom'd the depths we float on, 

or measured the unknown main 
Sadly they turn from the venture, and say 

that the quest is vain. 

Is life, then, a dream and delusion, and 

where shall the dreamer awake ? 
Is the world seen like shadows on water, and 

what if the mirror break ? 
Shall it pass as a camp that is struck, as a 

tent that is gathered and gone 
From the sands that were lamp-lit at eve, 

and at morning are level and lone ? 

Is there nought in the heaven above, whence 

the hail and the levin are hurl'd, 
But the wind that is swept around us by the 

rush of the rolling world ? 
The wind that shall scatter my ashes, and 

bear me to silence and sleep 
With the dirge, and the sounds of lamenting, 

and voices of women who weep. 



In the fam'd city that he sav'd, 
By minaret crown'd, by billow lav'd, 
I heard that he was dead. 

Now o'er his tomb at last I bend, 
No greeting get, no greeting tend, 

Who never came before 
Unto his presence, but I took, 
From word or gesture, tone or look, 

Some wisdom from his door. 

And must I now unanswered wait, 
And, though a suppliant at the gate, 

No sound my ears rejoice ? 
Listen I Yes, even as I stand, 
I feel the pressure of bis hand, 

The comfort of his voice. 



264 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



How poor were Fame, did grief confess 
That death can make a great life less, 

Or end the help it gave ! 
Our wreaths may fade, our flowers may 

wane, 
But his well-ripen 'd deeds remain, 

Untouch'd, above his grave. 

Let this, too, soothe our widow'd minds ; 
Silenced are the opprobrious winds 

Whene'er the sun goes down ; 
And free henceforth from noonday noise, 
He at a tranquil height enjoys 

The starlight of renown. 

Thus hence we something more may take 
Than sterile grief, than formless ache, 

Or vainly utter'd vow ; 
Death hath bestow'd what life withheld 
And he round whom detraction swell'd , 

Hath peace with honor now. 

The open jeer, the covert taunt, 

The falsehood coin'd in factious haunt, 

These loving gifts reprove. 
They never were but thwarted sound 
Of ebbing waves that bluster round 

A rock that will not move. 

And now the idle roar rolls off, 
Hush'd is the gibe and sham'd the scoff, 

Repress'd the envious gird ; 
Since death, the looking-glass of life, 
Clear'd of the misty breath of strife, 

Reflects his face unblurr'd. 

From callow youth to mellow age, 
Men turn the leaf and scan the page, 

And note, with smart of loss, 
How wit to wisdom did mature, 
How duty burn'd ambition pure, 

And purged away the dross. 

Youth is self-love ; our manhood lends 
Its heart to pleasure, mistress, friends, 

So that when age steals nigh, 
How few find any worthier aim 
Than to protract a flickering flame, 

Whose oil hath long run dry ! 

But he, unwitting youth once flown, 
With England's greatness link'd his own, 

And, steadfast to that part, 
Held praise and blame but fitful sound, 
And in the love of country found 

Full solace for his heart. 



Now in an English grave he lies : 
With flowers that tell of English skies 

And mind of English air, 
A grateful sovereign decks his bed, 
And hither long with pilgrim tread 

Will English feet repair. 

Yet not beside his grave alone 

We seek the glance, the touch, the tone; 

His home is nigh, but there, 
See from the hearth his figure fled, 
The pen unrais'd, the page unread, 

Untenanted the chair ! 

Vainly the beechen boughs have made 
A fresh green Canopy of shade, 

Vainly the peacocks stray ; 
While Carlo, with despondent gait, 
Wonders how long aifairs of State 

Will keep his lord away. 

Here most we miss the guide, the friend ; 
Back to the churchyard let me wend, 

And, by the posied mound, 
Lingering where late stood worthier feet, 
Wish that some voice, more strong, more 
sweet, 

A loftier dirge would sound. 

At least I bring not tardy flowers : 
Votive to him life's budding powers, 

Such as they were, I gave 
He not rejecting, so I may 
Perhaps these poor faint spices lay, 

Unchidden, on his grave ! 

SONGS FROM "PRINCE LU 
CIFER" 

GRAVE-DIGGER'S SONG 

THE crab, the bullace, and the sloe, 

They burgeon in the Spring ; 
And, when the west wind melts the snow, 

The redstarts build and sing. 
But Death's at work in rind and root, 

And loves the green buds best ; 
And when the pairing music 's mute, 
He spares the empty nest, 

Death ! Death ! 

Death is master of lord and clown. 
Close the coffin, and hammer it down 

When nuts are brown and sere without, 

And white and plump within, 
And juicy gourds are pass'd about, 

And trickle down the chin ; 



ALFRED AUSTIN 



When comes the reaper with his scythe, 

And reaps and nothing leaves, 

Oh, then it is that Death is blithe, 

And sups among the sheaves. 

Death ! Death ! 

Lower the coffin and slip the cord : 
Death is master of clown and lord. 

When logs about the house are stack'd, 

And next year's hose is knit, 
And tales are told and jokes are crack'd, 

And faggots blaze and spit ; 
Death sits down in the ingle-nook, 

Sits down and doth not speak : 
But he puts his arm round the maid that 's 

warm, 
And she tingles in the cheek. 

Death ! Death ! 

Death is master of lord and clown ; 
Shovel the clay in, tread it down. 

MOTHER-SONG 

WHITE little hands ! 

Pink little feet ! 
Dimpled all over, 

Sweet, sweet, sweet I 
What dost thou wail for ? 

The unknown ? the unseen ? 
The ills that are coming, 

The joys that have been ? 

Cling to me closer, 

Closer and closer, 
Till the pain that is purer 

Hath banish'd the grosser. 
Drain, drain at the stream, love, 

Thy hunger is freeing, 
That was born in a dream, love, 

Along with thy being ! 

Little fingers that feel 

For their home on my breast, 
Little lips that appeal 

For their nurture, their rest f 
Why, why dost thou weep, dear ? 

Nay, stifle thy cries, 
Till the dew of thy sleep, dear, 

Lies soft on thine eyes. 

AGATHA 

SHE wanders in the April woods, 
That glisten with the fallen shower ; 

She leans her face against the buds, 

She stops, she stoops, she plucks a flower. 



She feels the ferment of the hour : 
She broodeth when the ringdove broods ; 
The sun and flying clouds have power 
Upon her cheek and changing moods. 
She cannot think she is alone, 

As o'er her senses warmly steal 
Floods of unrest she fears to own, 
And almost dreads to feel. 

Among the summer woodlands wide 
Anew she roams, no more alone ; 
The joy she fear'd is at her side, 

Spring's blushing secret now is known. 
The primrose and its mates have flown, 
The thrush's ringing note hath died ; 
But glancing eye and glowing tone 
Fall on her from her god, her guide. 
She knows not, asks not, what the goal, 
She only feels she moves towards 

bliss, 

And yields her pure unquestioning soul 
To touch and fondling kiss. 

And still she haunts those woodland ways, 

Though all fond fancy finds there now 
To mind of spring or summer days, 

Are sodden trunk and songless bough. 

The past sits widow'd on her brow, 
Homeward she wends with wintry gaze, 

To walls that house a hollow vow, 
To hearth where love hath ceas'd to blaze i 

Watches the clammy twilight wane, 
With grief too fiVd for woe or tear ; 

And, with her forehead 'gainst the pane, 
Envies the dying year. 

THE HAYMAKERS' SONG 

HERE 's to him that grows it, 

Drink, lads, drink I 
That lays it in and mows it, 

Clink, jugs, clink ! 
To him that mows and makes it, 
That scatters it and shakes it, 
That turns, and teds, and rakes it, 
Clink, jugs, clink ! 

Now here 's to him that stacks it, 
Drink, lads, drink ! 

That thrashes and that tacks it, 
Clink, jugs, clink ! 

That cuts it out for eating, 

When March-dropp'd lambs are bleatmft 

And the slate-blue clouds are sleeting, 
Drink, lads, drink ! 



266 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



And here 's to thane and yeoman, 
Drink, lads, drink ! 

To horseman and to bowman, 
Clink, jugs, clink ! 



To lofty and to low man, 
Who bears a grudge to no man, 
But flinches from no foeman, 
Drink, lads, drink J 



MARIAN 

PASSING feet pause, as they pass, 
By this little slab of slate. 

People, if they go this way, 
By the linchen'd wicket gate, 

At each other look and say, 

" Pity, pity ! sad it was ! " 

Here have fallen as many tears 
As the months in her short years. 

Seven and ten brief sunny springs ; 

Scarce so many winter snows : 
Here the little speedwell keeps 

Watch beside the pale dog-rose ; 
On this hillock, while she sleeps 
Underneath, the red-breast sings. 

Wedded on an April day ! 

In the Autumn laid away ! 

PHANTOMS 

MY days are full of pleasant memories 

Of all those women sweet, 
Whom I have known ! How tenderly their 



Flash thro' the days too fleet ! 
Which long ago went by with sun and rain, 

Flowers, or the winter snow ; 
And still thro' memory's palace-halls are 
fain 

In rustling robes to go ! 
Or wed, or widow'd,or with milkless breasts, 

Around those women stand, 
Like mists that linger on the mountain 
crests 

Rear'd in a phantom land ; 
And love is in their mien and in their look, 

And from their lips a stream 
Of tender words flows, smooth as any brook, 

And softer than a dream : 
And, one by one, holding my hands, they say 

Things of the years agone ; 
And each head will a little turn away, 

And each one still sigh on ; 



Because they think such meagre joy we 

had ; 

For love was little bold, 
And youth had store, and chances to be 

glad, 

And squander'd so his gold. 
Blue eyes, and gray, and blacker than the 

sloe, 

And dusk and golden hair, 
And lips that broke in kisses long ago, 

Like suu-kiss'd flowers, are there ; 
And warm fire-side, and sunny orchard wall, 

And river-brink and bower, 
And wood and hill, and morning and day- 
fall, , 

And every place and hour ! 
And each on each a white unclouded brow 

Still as a sister bends, 
As they would say, " love makes us kindred 

now, 
Who sometime were his friends." 

BY THE SALPTRIRE 

I SAW a poor old woman on the bench 
That you may find by the Salpe'triere. 
The yellow leaves were falling, and the 

wind 

Gave hint of bitter days to come ere long. 
And yet the sun was bright : and as I knew 
A little sun, with the Parisiennes, 
Means light of heart, I could not but de 
mand 

" Why, now, so near to weeping, citizen ? " 
She look'd up at me with vague surprise, 
And said, " You see I 'in old ; I 'in very 

old: 

I 'm eighty years and nine ; and people say 
This winter will be hard. And we have 

here, 

We poor old women in this hospital, 
A mortal dread of one strange bitter thing. 
We would be buried in a coffin, we ; 
For each her own. It is not much you 
crave, 



ASHE WATTS 



267 



Who 've striven ninety years, and come to 

this, 

And we would have the priest to say a prayer 
To the good God for ns, within the church, 
Before we go the way that go we must. 
And sou by sou we save : a coffin costs, 
You hear, Sir ? sixteen francs ; and if 

we go 
To church en route, 't is six francs for the 

priest. 
There 's some of us have sav'd it all, and 

smile, 
With the receipt sew'd up, lest they should 

lose 

This passport to the grave of honest folk. 
But one may die before ; and then there is 
One coffin for us all, and we are borne 
To our last place, and slipp'd within the 

grave, 

And back they take the coffin for the next. 
And if you 've sixteen francs, and not the six, 
No church, but just a sprinkle with the brush, 
And half a prayer, and you must take your 

chance. 

Good God ! and I shall die : I know I shall : 
I feel it here ! and I have ten francs just : 
No more ! " My tears fell like a shower of 

rain. 
I said, ' Old woman, here 's the other 

twelve ; " 
fled, with great strides, like a man 



A VISION OF CHILDREN 

I DREAM'D I saw a little brook 
Run rippling down the Strand ; 

With cherry-trees and apple-trees 
Abloom on either hand : 



The sparrows gather'd from the Squares, 

Upon the branches green ; 
The pigeons flock'd from Palace-Yard, 

A fresh their wings to preen ; 
And children down St. Martin's Lane, 

And out of Westminster, 
Came trooping, many a thousand strong. 

With a bewilder'd air. 
They hugg'd each other round the neck 

And titter'd for delight, 
To see the yellow daffodils, 

And see the daisies white ; 
They roll'd upon the grassy slopes, 

And drank the water clear, 
While 'busses the Embankment took, 

A sham 'd to pass anear ; 
And sandwich-men stood still aghast, 

And costermongers smil'd ; 
And the policeman on his beat 

Fass'd, weeping like a child. 



POETA NASCITUR 

THE flame-wing'd seraph spake a word 

To one of Galilee : 
" Be not afraid : know, of the Lord 

Is that is born of thee." 

And by the poet's bliss and woe 
Learn we tho will of Heaven : 

He is God's instrument ; and so 
Swords in his heart are seven. 

He is God's oracle and slave, 

As once the priestesses ; 
His griefs in keeping we should hare, 

To heal, or make them less. 



ODE TO MOTHER CAREY'S 
CHICKEN 

)N SEEING A STORM-PETREL IN A CAGB ON A 
COTTAGE WALL AND RELEASING IT) 

rAZE not at me, my poor unhappy bird ; 
That sorrow is more than human in thine 

6V6 * 

Too deep already is my spirit stirr'd 

To see thee here, child of the sea and sky, 



Coop'd in a cage with food thon canst not eat, 
Thy "snow-flake" soU'd, and soil'd those 

conquering feet 
That walked the billows, while thy "*** 

sweet-siceet " 

Proclaim'd the tempest nigh. 

Bird whom I welcom'd while the sallow 

curs'd, 

Friend whom I bless'd whererer keels 
may roam, 



268 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



Prince of my childish dreams, whom mer 
maids nurs'd 

In purple of billows silver of ocean- 
foam, 

Abash'd I stand before the mighty grief 
That quells all other : Sorrow's king and 

chief : 

To ride the wind and hold the sea in fief, 
Then find a cage for home ! 

From out thy jail thou seest yon heath and 

woods, 
But canst thou hear the birds or smell 

the flowers ? 
Ah, no ! those rain-drops twinkling on the 

buds 

Bring only visions of the salt sea-showers. 
" The sea ! " the linnets pipe from hedge 

and heath ; 
" The sea ! " the honeysuckles whisper and 

breathe ; 

And tumbling waves, where those wild-roses 
wreathe, 

Murmur from inland bowers. 

These winds so soft to others, how they 

burn ! 
The mavis sings with gurgle and ripple 

and plash, 

To thee yon swallow seems a wheeling tern. 

And when the rain recalls the briny lash 

Old Ocean's kiss thou lovest, when thy 

sight 
Is mock'd with Ocean's horses manes of 

white, 

The long and shadowy flanks, the shoulders 
bright 

Bright as the lightning's flash, 

When all these scents of heather and brier 

and whin, 
All kindly breaths of land-shrub, flower, 

and vine, 

Kecall the sea-scents, till thy feather'd skin 

Tingles in answer to a dream of brine, 

When thou, remembering there thy royal 

birth, 

Dost see between the bars a world of dearth, 
Is there a grief a grief on all the earth 
So heavy and dark as thine ? 

But I can buy thy freedom I Cthank 

God!), 

Who lov'd thee more than albatross or 
gull, 



Lov'd thee when on the waves thy footsteps 

trod, 
Dream'd of thee when, becalm'd, we lav 

a-hull 

'T is I thy friend who once, a child of six, 
To find where Mother Carey fed her chicks, 
Climb'd up the stranded punt, and with 
two sticks 

Tried all in vain to scull> 

Thy friend who ow'd a Paradise of Storm, 

The little dreamer of the cliffs and coves, 

Who knew thy mother, saw her shadowy 

form 
Behind the cloudy bastions where she 

moves, 

And heard her call : " Come ! for the wel 
kin thickens, 
And tempests mutter and the lightning 

quickens ! " 

Then, starting from his dream, would find 
the chickens 

Were only blue rock-doves, 

Thy friend who ow'd another Paradise 

Of calmer air, a floating isle of fruit, 
Where sang the Nereids on a breeze of spice 
While Triton, from afar, would sound 

salute : 
There wast thou winging, though the skies 

were calm, 
For marvellous strains, as of the morning's 

shalm, 

Were struck by ripples round that isle of 
palm 

Whose shores were " Carey's lute." 

And now to see thee here, my king, my king, 
Far-glittering memories mirror'd in those 

eyes, 

As if there shone within each iris-ring 
An orbed world ocean and hills and 

skies ! 
Those black wings ruffled whose triumphant 

sweep 

Conquer 'd in sport ! yea, up the glimmer 
ing steep 

Of highest billow, down the deepest deep, 
Sported with victories ! 

To see thee here ! a coil of wilted weeds 
Beneath those feet that danced on dia 
mond spray, 

Rider of sportive Ocean's reinless steeds 
Winner in Mother Carey's sabbath-fray 



THEODORE WATTS 



269 



When, stung by magic of the witch's chant, 
They rise, each foamy-crested combatant 
They rise and fall and leap aiid foam and 

gallop and pant 

Till albatross, sea-swallow, and cormorant 
Would flee like doves away 1 

And shalt thou ride 110 more where thou 

bast ridden, 
And feast no more in hyaline halls and 

caves, 
Master of Mother Carey's secrets hidden, 

Master most equal of the wind and waves, 
Who never, save in stress of angriest blast, 
Ask'd ship for shelter, never, till at last 
The foam-flakes, hurl'd against the sloping 
mast, 

Slash'd thee like whirli ng glaives ! 

Right home to fields no seamew ever kenn'd, 
Where scarce the great sea-wanderer 

fares with thee, 
ll come to take thee nay, 'tis I, thy 

friend 

Ah, tremble not I come to set thee free ; 
[I come to tear this cage from off this wall, 
And take thee hence to that fierce festival 
Where billows march and winds are musical, 
Hymning the Victor-Sea ! 



Tea, lift thine eyes, my own can bear them 

now : 
Thou 'rt free ! thou 'rt free. Ah, surely 

a bird can smile ! 
Dost know me, Petrel? Dost remember how 

I fed thee in the wake for many a mile, 
Whilst thou wouldst pat the waves, then, 

rising, take 

The morsel up and wheel about the wake ? 
Thou 'rt free, thou 'rt free, but for thine 
own dear sake 

I keep thee caged awhile. 

Away to sea ! no matter where the coast : 
The road that turns to home turns never 

wrong : 
Where waves run high my bird will not be 

lost: 
His home I know : 't is where the winds 

are strong, 
Where, on her throne of billows, rolling 

hoary 
And green and blue and splash'd with 

sunny glory, 



Far, far from shore from farthest prom 
ontory 

The mighty Mother sings the triumphs of 
her story, 
Sings to my bird the song 1 

THE SONNET'S VOICE 

(A METRICAL LESSON BY THE SEASHORE) 

YON silvery billows breaking on the beach 
Fall back in foam beneath the star-shine 

clear, 
The while my rhymes are murmuring in 

your ear 

A restless lore like that the billows teach ; 
For on these sonnet-waves iny soul would 

reach 
From its own depths, and rest within you, 

dear, 

As, through the billowy voices yearning here, 
Great nature strives to find a human speech. 
A sonnet is a wave of melody : 
From heaving waters of the iiupassion'd 

soul 

A billow of tidal music one and whole 
Flows in the " octave ; " then returning free, 
Its ebbing surges in the " sestet " roll 
Back to the deeps of Life's tumultuous sea. 

COLERIDGE 

I SEE thee pine like her in golden story 

Who, in her prison, woke and saw, one day, 

The gates thrown open saw the sunbeams 
play, 

With only a web 'tween her and summer's 
glory ; 

Who, when that web so frail, so transi 
tory 

It broke before her breath had fallen 
away, 

Saw other webs and others rise for aye 

Which kept her prison'd till her hair wae 
hoary. 

Those songs half-sung that yet were all- 
divine 

That woke Romance, the queen, to reign 
afresh 

Had been but preludes from that lyre of 
thine, 

Could thy rare spirit's wings have pierced 
the mesh 

Spun by the wizard who compels the flesh, 

But lets the poet see how heav'n can shin* 



270 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



THE BREATH OF AVON 

TO THE PILGRIMS OF GREATER BRITAIN 
ON SHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHDAY 



WHATE'ER of woe the Dark may hide in 

womb 
For England, mother of kings of battle and 

song 

Be it rapine, racial hates, mysterious wrong, 
Blizzard of Chance, or fiery dart of Doom 
Let breath of Avon, rich of meadow-bloom, 
Bind her to that great daughter sever'd 

long 
To near and far-off children young and 

strong 

With fetters woven of Avon's flower per 
fume. 

Welcome, ye English-speaking pilgrims, ye 
Whose hands around the world are join'd 

by him, 
Who make his speech the language of the 

sea, 

Till winds of Ocean waft from rim to rim 
The breath of Avon : let this great day 

be 
A Feast of Race no power shall ever dim. 

II 

From where the steeds of Earth's twin 
oceans toss 

Their manes along Columbia's chariot- 
way 

From where Australia's long blue billows 
play- 

From where the morn, quenching the 
Southern Cross, 

Startling the frigate-bird and albatross 

Asleep in air, breaks over Table Bay 

Come hither, Pilgrims, where these rushes 
sway 

'Tween grassy banks of Avon soft as moss ! 

For, if ye found the breath of Ocean sweet, 

Sweeter is Avon's earthy, flowery smell, 

DistilFd from roots that feel the coming 
spell 

Of May, who bids all flowers that lov'd him 
meet 

In meadows that, remembering Shake 
speare's feet, 

Hold still a dream of music where they 
fell. 



THE FIRST KISS 

IF only in dreams may man be fully blest, 

Is heav'n a dream ? Is she I clasp 'd a 
dream ? 

Or stood she here even now where dew- 
drops gleam 

And miles of furze shine golden down the 
West? 

I seem to clasp her still still on my breast 

Her bosom beats, I see the blue eyes 
beam : 

I think she kiss'd these lips, for now they 
seem 

Scarce mine : so hallow'd of the lips they 
press 'd ! 

Yon thicket's breath can that be eglan 
tine ? 

Those birds can they be morning's choris 
ters? 

Can this be earth ? Can these be banks of 
furze ? 

Like burning bushes fir'd of God they shine ! 

I seem to know them, though this body of 
mine 

Pass'd into spirit at the touch of hers ! 

TOAST TO OMAR KHAYYAM 

AN EAST ANGLIAN ECHO-CHORUS 

Chorus 

IN this red wine, where Memory's eyes 

seem glowing 
Of days when wines were bright by 

Ouse and Cam, 
And Norfolk's foaming nectar glittered, 

showing 
What beard of gold John Barleycorn was 

growing, 
We drink to thee whose lore is Nature's 

knowing, 

Omar Khayyam ! 



Star-gazer who canst read, when night is 

strewing 
Her scriptured orbs on Time's frail ori- 

flamme, 
Nature's proud blazon : " Who shall 

bless or damn ? 

Life, Death, and Doom are all of my 
bestowing ! " 



WATTS GRAY 



271 



Chorus 
Oinar Khayyam I 

II 

Master whose stream of balm and music, 

flowing 
Through Persian gardens, widened till 

it swam 
f A fragrant tide no bank of Time shall 

dam 
Through Suffolk meads where gorse and 

may were blowing, 

Chorus 
Omar Khayy&m ! 

in 
Who blent thy song with sound of cattle 

lowing, 
And caw of rooks that perch on ewe 

and ram, 
And hymn of lark, and bleat of orphan 

lamb, 

And swish of scythe in Bredfield's dewy 
mowing ? 



Chorus 
Omar Khayyam I 

IV 

'T was Fitz, "Old Fitz," whose knowledge, 

farther going 
Than lore of Oiuar, " Wisdom's starry 

Cham," 

Made richer still thine opulent epigram : 
Sowed seed from seed of thine i in mortal 
sowing. 

Chorut 
Omar Khayyam ! 

In this red wine, where Memory's eyet 

seem glowing 
Of days when wines were bright by 

Ouse and Cam, 
And Norfolk's foaming nectar glittered, 

showing 
What beard of gold John Barleycorn was 

growing, 
We drink to thee whose lore is Nature's 

knowing, 

Omar Khayyam ! 



THE DEAR OLD TOILING ONE 

OH, many a leaf will fall to-night, 

As she wanders through the wood ! 

And many an angry gust will break 

The dreary solitude. 

I wonder if she 's past the bridge, 

Where Luggie moans beneath, 

While rain-drops clash in planted lines 

On rivulet and heath. 

Disease hath laid his palsied palm 

Upon my aching brow ; 

The headlong blood of twenty-one 

Is thin and sluggish now. 

'T is nearly ten ! A fearful night, 

Without a single star 

To light the shadow on her soul 

With sparkle from afar : 

The moon is canopied with clouds, 

And her burden it is sore ; 

W T hat would wee Jackie do, if he 

Should never see her more ? 

Ay, light the lamp, and hang it up 

At the window fair and free ; 



T will be a beacon on the hill 

To let your mother see. 

And trim it well, my little Ann, 

For the night is wet and cold, 

And you know the weary, winding way 

Across the miry wold. 

All drench'd will be her simple gown, 

And the wet will reach her skin : 

I wish that I could wander down, 

And the red quarry win, 

To take the burden from her back, 

And place it upon mine ; 

With words of cheerful condolence, 

Not utter'd to repine. 

You have a kindly mother, dean, 

As ever bore a child, 

And Heaven knows I love her well 

In passion undenTd. 

Ah me ! I never thought that she 

Would brave a night Tike this, 

While I sat weaving by the fire 

A web of fantasies. 

How the winds beat this home of ours 

With arrow-falls of rain ; 



272 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



This lonely home upon the hill 

They beat with might and main. 

And 'mid the tempest one lone heart 

Anticipates the glow, 

Whence, all her weary journey done, 

Shall happy welcome flow. 

'T is after ten ! O, were she here, 

Young man although I be, 

I could fall down upon her neck, 

And weep right gushingly ! 

I have not lov'd her half enough, 

The dear old toiling one, 

The silent watcher by my bed, 

In shadow or in sun. 

I DIE, BEING YOUNG 

" WHOM the gods love die young." The 

thought is old, 

And yet it sooth'd the sweet Athenian mind. 
I take it with all pleasure, overbold 
Perhaps, yet to its virtue much inclin'd 
By an inherent love for what is fair. 
This is the utter poetry of woe, 
That the bright-flashing gods should cure 

despair 
By love, and make youth precious here below. 



I die, being young ; and, dying, could be 
come 

A pagan, with the tender Grecian trust. 

Let death, the fell anatomy, benumb 

The hand that writes, and fill my mouth 
with dust : 

Chant no funereal theme, but, with a 
choral 

Hymn, O ye mourners, hail immortal youth 
auroral. 

MY EPITAPH 

BELOW lies one whose name was traced in 

sand. 
He died, not knowing what it was to 

live : 
Died, while the first sweet consciousness of 

manhood 

To maiden thought electrified his soul, 
Faint heatings in the calyx of the rose. 
Bewilder'd reader, pass without a sigh, 
In a proud sorrow ! There is life with 

God 

In other kingdom of a sweeter air. 
In Eden every flower is blown : Amen. 



AN EPISODE 

VASARI tells that Luca Signorelli, 
The morning star of Michael Angelo, 
Had but one son, a youth of seventeen sum 
mers, 
Who died. That day the master at his 

easel 
Wielded the liberal brush wherewith he 

painted 

At Orvieto, on the Duomo's walls, 
Stern forms of Death and Heaven and Hell 

and Judgment. 
Then came they to him, and cried : " Thy 

son is dead, 

Slain in a duel ; but the bloom of life 
Yet lingers round red lips and downy 

cheek." 
Luca spoke not, but listen'd. Next they 

bore 

His dead son to the silent painting-room, 
And left on tiptoe son and sire alone. 



Still Luca spoke and groan'd not ; but he 
rais'd 

The wonderful dead youth, and smooth'd 
his hair, 

Wash'd his red wounds, and laid him on a 
bed, 

Naked and beautiful, where rosy curtains 

Shed a soft glimmer of uncertain splen 
dor 

Life-like upon the marble limbs below. 

Then Luca seiz'd his palette : hour by 
hour 

Silence was in the room ; none durst ap 
proach : 

Morn wore to noon, and noon to eve, when 
shyly 

A little maid peep'd in, and saw the painter 

Painting his dead son with unerring hand- 
stroke, 

Firm and dry-ey'd before the lordly can* 
vas. 



JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS 



273 



LUX EST UMBRA DEI 

NAY, Death, thou art a shadow ! Even as 

light 

Is but the shadow of invisible God, 
And of that shade the shadow is thin Night, 
Veiling the earth whereon our feet have 

trod ; 

So art Thou but the shadow of this life, 
Itself the pale and unsubstantial shade 
Of living 1 God, fulfill'd by love and strife 
Throughout the universe Himself hath 

made : 
And as frail Night, following the flight of 

earth, 
Obscures the world we breathe in, for a 

while, 

So Thou, the reflex of our mortal birth, 
Veilest the life wherein we weep and 

smile : 
But when both earth and life are whirl'd 

away, 
What shade can shroud us from God's 

deathless day ? 

THE NIGHTINGALE 

I WENT a roaming through the woods alone, 
And heard the nightingale that made her 
moan. 

Hard task it were to tell how dewy-still 
Were flowers and ferns and foliage in 

the rays 
Of Hesper, white amid the daffodil 

Of twilight fleck'd with faintest chryso- 

prase ; 
And all the while, embower'd in leafy 

bays, 

The bird prolong' d her sharp soul-thrilling 
tone. 

I went a roaming through the woods alone, 
And heard the nightingale that made her 
moan. 

But as I stood and listened, on the air 

Arose another voice more clear and keen, 
That startled silence with a sweet despair, 
And still'd the bird beneath her leafy 

screen : 
The star of Love, those lattice-boughs 

between, 

Grew large and lean'd to listen from his 
zone. 



I went a roaming through the woods alone, 
And heard the nightingale that made her 
. moan. 

The voice, methought, was neither man's 

nor boy's, 
Nor bird's nor woman's, but all these in 

one : 

In Paradise perchance such perfect noise 
Resounds from angel choirs in unison, 
Chanting with cherubim their antiphon 
To Christ and Mary on the sapphire throne. 

I went a roaming through the woods alone, 
And heard the nightingale that made her 
moan. 

Then down the forest aisles there came a 

boy, 

Unearthly pale, with passion in his eyes ; 
Who sang a song whereof the sound was ioy, 
But all the burden was of love that dies 
And death that lives a song of sobs 

and sighs, 

A wild swan a note of Death and Love in 
one. 

I went a roaming through the woods alone, 
And heard the nightingale that made her 
moan. 

Love bnm'd within his luminous eyes, and 

Death 
Had made his fluting voice so keen and 

high, 

The wild wood trembled as he pass'd be 
neath, 
With throbbing throat singing, Love-led, 

to die : 
Then all was hush'd, till in the thicket 

nigh 

The bird resum'd her sharp soul-thrilling 
tone. 

I went a roaming through the woods alone, 
And heard the nightingale that made her 
moan. 

But in my heart and in my brain the cry, 
The wail, the dirge, the dirge of Dath 

and Love, 
Still throbs and throbs, flute-like, and will 

not die, 

Piercing and clear the night-bird s 
above, 



274 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



The aching, anguish'd, wild-swan's note, 

whereof 

The sweet sad flower of song was over 
blown. 

I went a roaming through the woods alone, 
And heard the nightingale that made her 
moan. 

THE FALL OF A SOUL 

I SAT unsphering Plato ere I slept : 

Then through my dream the choir of gods 

was borne, 

Swift as the wind and splendid as the morn, 
Fronting the night of stars ; behind them 

swept 

Tempestuous darkness o'er a drear descent, 
Wherein I saw a crowd of charioteers 
Urging their giddy steeds with cries and 

cheers, 
To join the choir that aye before them 

went : 

But one there was who fell, with broken car 
And horses swooning down the gulf of 

gloom ; 
Heavenward his eyes, though prescient of 

their doom, 

Reflected glory like a falling star, 
While with wild hair blown back and list 
less hands 
Ruining he sank toward undiscover'd lands. 



FAREWELL 

IT is buried and done with, 
The love that we knew : 

Those cobwebs we spun with 
Are beaded with dew. 

I lov'd thee ; I leave thee : 
To love thee was pain : 

I dare not believe thee, 
To love thee again. 

Like spectres unshriven 
Are the years that I lost ; 

To thee they were given 
Without count of cost. 

I cannot revive them 
By penance or prayer : 

Hell's tempest must drive them 
Through turbulent air. 



Farewell, and forget me ; 

For I too am free 
From the shame that beset me, 

The sorrow of thee. 



IL FIOR DEGLI EROICI FURORI 

(SAXIFRAGA PYRAMIDALIS) 

I BLOOM but once, and then I perish ; 

This plume of snow 
No sun or soft south wind will cherish 

'T is drooping now. 

Black streams beneath me foam and thun 
der ; 

Their icy breath, 
There where the rocks are rent asuuder, 

Wooes me with death. 

Still like a fair imperial streamer 

I float and flaunt ; 
I am no light luxurious dreamer, 

Whom dangers daunt. 

For me no delicate life-lover 

Will dare to bow ; 
My pyramid of bloom shall cover 

No craven's brow. 

But should some youth on whom the splen 
dor 

Of hope is high, 
Who loves with love superb and tender 

What cannot die, 

Pass by this dark and awful dwelling, 

He shall not shrink 

From slippery rock or sick waves swell 
ing 

To the black brink ; 

But stoop and pluck the song I utter 

Of death and joy : 
Yea, my free plume of snow shall flutter 

To greet the boy. 

VENICE 

VENICE, thou Siren of sea-cities, wrought 
By mirage, built on water, stair o'er stair, 
Of sunbeams and cloud-shadows, phantom- 
fair, 

With naught of earth to mar thy sea-born 
thought ! 



JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS 



*75 



Thou floating film upon the wonder-fraught 

Ocean of dreams ! Thou hast no dream so 
rare 

As are thy sons and daughters, they who 
wear 

Foam-flakes of charm from thine enchant 
ment caught ! 

O dark brown eyes ! O tangles of dark hair ! 

O heaven-blue eyes, blonde tresses where 
the breeze 

Plays over sun-burn'd cheeks in sea-blown 
air ! 

Firm limbs of moulded bronze ! frank 
debonair 

Smiles of deep-bosom'd women ! Loves 
that seize 

Man's soul, and waft her on storm-melo 
dies ! 

THYSELF 

GIVE me thyself ! It were s well to cry : 
Give me the splendor of this night of June ! 
Give me yon star upon the swart lagoon 
Trembling in unapproach'd serenity ! 
Our gondola, that four swift oarsmen ply, 
Shoots from the darkening Lido's sandy 

dune, 
Splits with her steel the mirrors of the 

moon, 

Shivers the star-beams that before us fly. 
Give me thyself ! This prayer is even a 

knell, 

Warning me back to mine own impotence. 
Self gives not self; and souls sequester'd 

dwell 

In the dark fortalice of thought and sense, 
Where, though life's prisoners call from 

cell to cell, 
Each pines alone and may not issue thence. 

THE SONNET 

I 

THE Sonnet is a fruit which long hath slept 
And ripen'd on life's sun-warm'd orchard- 
wall; 

A gem which, hardening in the mystical 
Mine of man's heart, to quenchless flame 

hath leapt ; 

A medal of pure gold art's nympholept 
Stamps with love's lips and brows imperial ; 
A branch from memory's briar, whereon 

the fall 
Of thought-eternalizing tears hath wept : 



A star that shoots athwart star-steadfast 
heaven ; 

A fluttering aigrette of toss'd passion's 
brine ; 

A leaf from youth's immortal missal torn ; 

A bark across dark seas of anguish driven ; 

A feather dropp'd from breast-wings aqui 
line; 

A silvery dream shunning red lips of morn 



There is no mood, no heart-throb fugitive, 
No spark from man's imperishable mind, 
No moment of man's will, that may not 

find 
Form in the Sonnet; and thenceforward 

live 

A potent elf, by art's imperative 
Magic to crystal spheres of song confin'd : 
As in the moonstone's orb pent spirits 

wind 
'Mid dungeon depths day-beams they take 

and give. 
Spare them no pains ; carve thought's pure 

diamond 
With fourteen facets, scattering fire and 

light: 

Uncut, what jewel burns but darkly bright ? 
And Prospero vainly waves his runic wand, 
If spurning art's inexorable law 
In Ariel's prison-sphere he leave one flaw. 

Ill 

The Sonnet is a world, where feelings caught 
In webs of phantasy, combine and foM 
Their kindred elements 'neath mystic dews 
Shed from the ether round man's dwelling 

wrought ; 
Distilling heart's content, star-fragrance 

fraught 

With influences from the breathing fires 
Of heaven in everlasting endless gyres 
Enfolding and encircling orbs of thought. 
Our Sonnet's world hath two fix'd hemi 
spheres : 
This, where the sun with fierce strength 

masculine 
Pours his keen rays and bids the noonday 

shine ; 

That, where the moon and the stars, con 
cordant powers, 

Shed milder rays, and daylight disappears 
In low melodious music of still hours. 



276 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



A MUSIC LESSON 

FINGERS on the holes, Johnny, 

Fairly in a raw : 
Lift this and then that, 

And blaw, blaw, blaw ! 
That 's hoo to play, Johnny, 

On the pipes sae shrill : 
Never was the piper yet 

But needit a' his skill. 

And lang and sair he tried it, tae, 

Afore he wan the knack 
O' making bag and pipe gie 

His verra yearnin's back. 
The echo tae his heart-strings 

Frae sic a thing to come ; 
Oh, is it no a wonder 

Like a voice frae out the dumb ? 

Tak' tentie, noo, my Johnny lad, 

Ye maunna hurry thro', 
Tak' time and try it ower again 

Sic a blast ye blew ! 
It 's no alane by blawing strang, 

But eke by blawing true, 
That ye can mak' the music 

To thrill folk thro' and thro'. 

The waik folk and the learning 

'T is them that mak's the din ; 
But for the finish'd pipers 

They count it as a sin : 
And maybe it 's the verra same 

A' the warld thro', 
The learners are the verra ones 

That mak' the most ado ! 

Ye ken the Southrons taunt us 

I sayna they 're unfair 
Aboot oor squallin' music, 

And their taunts hae hurt me sair ; 
But if they 'd heard a piper true 

At nicht come ower the hill, 
Playin' up a pibroch 

Upon the wind sae still : 

Risin' noo, and fallin' noo, 

And floatin' on the air, 
The sounds come saftly on ye 

Amaist ere ye 're aware, 



And wind themsels aboot the heart, 

That hasna yet forgot 
The witchery o' love and joy 

Within some lanely spot : 

I 'm sure they wadna taunt us sae, 

Nor say the bagpipe 's wild, 
Nor speak o' screachin' noises 

Enuch to deave a child : 
They would say the bagpipe only 

Is the voice of hill and glen ; 
And would listen to it sorrowing, 

Within the haunts of men. 

Fingers on the holes, Johnny, 

Fairly in a raw : 
Lift this and then that, 

And blaw, blaw, blaw ! 
That 's hoo to play, Johnny, 

On the pipes sae shrill : 
Never was the piper yet 

But needit a' his skill. 

LANDOR 

LIKE crown'd athlete that in a race has run, 
And points his finger at those left behind, 
And follows on his way as now inclin'd, 
With song and laughter in the glowing sun ; 
And joys at that which he hath joyous done, 
And, like a child, will wanton with the 

wind, 
And pluck the flowers his radiant brows to 

bind 

Re-crown himself as conscious he hath won ; 
And still regardless of his fellow-men 
He follows on his road intent and fain 
To please himself, and caring not to gain 
The world's applause which he might seek 

in vain : 
A soldier, yet would, careless, sport and 

play 
And leave the reckoning for a distant day. 

SHELLEY 

THE odor of a rose : light of a star : 
The essence of a flame blown on by wind, 
That lights and warms all near it, bland 

and kind, 
But aye consumes itself, as though at war 



JAPP MONKHOUSE 



*77 



With what supports and feeds it ; from 

afar 

It draws its life, but evermore inclin'd 
To leap into the flame that makes men 

blind 

Who seek the secret of all things that are. 
Such wert thou, Shelley, bound for airiest 

goal : 

Interpreter of quintessential things : 
Who mounted ever up on eagle-wings 
Of phantasy : had aim'd at heaven and 

stole 

Promethean fire for men to be as gods, 
And dwell in free, aerial abodes. 



MEMORIES 

MY love he went to Burdon Fair, 
And of all the gifts that he saw there 
Was none could his great love declare ; 



SONG 

WHO calls me bold because I won my love, 

And did not pine, 

And waste my life with secret pain, but 
strove 

To make him mine ? 

I us'd no arts ; 't was Nature's self that 
taught 

My eye to speak, 
And bid the burning blush to paint unsought 

My flashing cheek ; 

That made my voice to tremble when I bid 

My love " Goodby," 
So weak that every other sound was hid, 

Except a sigh. 

Oh, was it wrong to use the truth I knew, 

That hearts are mov'd, 
And spring warm-struck with life and love 
anew, 

By being lov'd ? 

One night there came a tear, that, big and 

loth, 
Stole 'neath my brow. 



So he brought me marjoram smelling rare 

Its sweetness filled all the air. 
Oh, the days I dote on yet, 
Marjoram, pansies, mignonette I 

My love he sail'd across the sea, 
And all to make a home for me. 
Oh, sweet his last kiss on the lea, 
The pansies pluck'd beneath the tree, 
When he said, "My love, I'll send for 

thee 1 " 

Oh, the days I dote on yet, 
Marjoram, pansies, mignonette 1 

His mother sought for me anon ; 

So long my name she would not own. 

Ah, gladly would she now atone, 

For we together make our moan ! 

She brought the mignonette I 've 
Oh, the days I dote on yet, 
Marjoram, pansies, mignonette ! 



'T was thus I won my heart's own heart, 

and both 
Are happy now. 

A DEAD MARCH 

PLAY me a march, low-ton'd and slow 
a march for a silent tread, 

Fit for the wandering feet of one who 
dreams of the silent dead, 

Lonely, between the bones below and the 
souls that are overhead. 

Here for a while they smil'd and sang ; 

alive in the interspace, 
Here with the grass beneath the foot, anc. 

the stars above the face, 
Now are their feet beneath the grass, and 

whither has flown their grace ? 

Who shall assure ns whence they come, or 

tell us the way they go ? 
Verily, life with them was joy, and. now 

they have left us, woe, 
Once they were not, and now they are not, 

and this is the sum we know. 



2 7 8 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



Orderly range the seasons due, and orderly 

roll the stars. 
How shall we deem the soldier brave who 

frets of his wounds and scars ? 
Are we as senseless brutes that we should 

dash at the well-seen bars ? 

No, we are here, with feet unfix'd, but ever 

as if with lead 
Drawn from the orbs which shine above to 

the orb on which we tread, 
Down to the dust from which we came and 

with which we shall mingle dead. 

No, we are here to wait, and work, and 

strain our banish'd eyes, 
Weary and sick of soil and toil, and hungry 

and fain for skies 
Far from the reach of wingless men, and 

not to be scal'd with cries. 

No, we are here to bend our necks to the 
yoke of tyrant Time, 

Welcoming all the gifts he gives us glo 
ries of youth and prime, 

Patiently watching them all depart as our 
heads grow white as rime. 

Why do we mourn the days that go for 
the same sun shines each day, 

Ever a spring her primrose hath, and ever 
a May her may ; 

Sweet as the rose that died last year is the 
rose that is born to-day. 

Do we not too return, we men, as ever the 
round earth' whirls ? 

Never a head is dimm'd with gray but an 
other is sunn'd with curls ; 

She was a girl and he was a boy, but yet 
there are boys and girls. 

Ah, but alas for the smile of smiles that 

never but one face wore ; 
Ah, for the voice that has flown away like 

a bird to an unseen shore ; 
Ah, for the face the flower of flowers 

that blossoms on earth no more. 



THE SPECTRUM 

How many colors here do we see set, 
tike rings upon God's finger ? Some say 
three, 



Some four, some six, some seven. All agree 

To left of red, to right of violet, 

Waits darkness deep as night and black as 

jet. 

And so we know what Noah saw we see, 
Nor less nor more of God's emblazonry 
A shred a sign of glory known not yet. 
If red can glide to yellow, green to blue, 
What joys may yet await our wider eyes 
When we rewake upon a wider shore ! 
What deep pulsations., exquisite and new ! 
What keener, swifter raptures may surprise 
Men born to see the rainbow and no more ! 

THE SECRET 

SHE passes in her beauty bright 

Amongst the mean, amongst the gay, 

And all are brighter for the sight, 
And bless her as she goes her way. 

And now a gleam of pity pours, 
And now a spark of spirit flies, 

Uncounted, from the unlock'd stores 
Of her rich lips and precious eyes. 

And all men look, and all men smile, 
But no man looks on her as I : 

They mark her for a little while, 
But I will watch her till I die. 

And if I wonder now and then 

Why this so strange a thing should be 

That she be seen by wiser men 
And only duly lov'd by me : 

I only wait a little longer, 

And watch her radiance in the room ; 
Here making light a little stronger, 

And there obliterating gloom, 

(Like one who, in a tangled way, 

Watches the broken sun fall through, 

Turning to gold the faded spray, 
And making diamonds of dew). 

Until at last, as my heart burns, 
She gathers all her scatter'd light, 

And undivided radiance turns 
Upon me like a sea of light. 

And then I know they see in part 

That which God lets me worship whole/ 

He gives them glances of her heart, 
But me, the sunshine of her soul. 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



279 



ftobcrt 25ucljanan 



THE BALLAD OF JUDAS IS- 
CARIOT 

'T WAS the body of Judas Iscariot 

Lay in the Field of Blood ; 
'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot 

Beside the body stood. 

Black was the earth by night, 

And black was the sky ; 
Black, black were the broken clouds, 

Tho' the red Moon went by. 

'T was the body of Judas Iscariot 
Strangled and dead lay there ; 

'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot 
Look'd on it in despair. 

The breath of the World came and went 

Like a sick man's in rest ; 
Drop by drop on the World's eyes 

The dews fell cool and blest. 

Then the soul of Judas Iscariot 

Did make a gentle moan 
" I will bury underneath the ground 

My flesh and blood and bone. 

" I will bury deep beneath the soil, 

Lest mortals look thereon, 
And when the wolf and raven come 

The body will be gone ! 

" The stones of the field are sharp as steel, 
And hard and bold, God wot ; 

And I must bear my body hence 
Until I find a spot ! " 

'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot 
So grim, and gaunt, and gray, 

Rais'd the body of Judas Iscariot, 
And carried it away. 

And as he bare it from the field 

Its touch was cold as ice, 
And the ivory teeth within the jaw 

Rattled aloud, like dice. 

As the soul of Judas Iscariot 

Carried its load with pain, 
The Eye of Heaven, like a lanthorn's eye, 

Open'd and shut again. 



Half he walk'd, and half he seem'd 

Lifted on the cold wind ; 
He did not turn, for chilly hands 

Were pushing from behind. 

The first place that he came unto 

It was the open wold, 
And underneath were prickly whins, 

And a wind that blew so cold. 

The next place that he came unto 

It was a stagnant pool, 
And when he threw the body in 

It floated light as wool. 

He drew the body on his back, 

And it was dripping chill, 
And the next place that he came onto 

Was a Cross upon a hill. 

A Cross upon the windy hill, 

And a Cross on either side, 
Three skeletons that swing thereon, 

Who had been crucified. 

And on the middle cross-bar sat 

A white Dove slumbering ; 
Dim it sat in the dim light, 

With its head beneath its wing. 

And underneath the middle Cross 
A grave yawn'd wide and vast, 

But the soul of Judas Iscariot 
Shiver'd, and glided past 

The fourth place that he came unto 

It was the Brig of Dread, 
And the great torrents rushing down 

Were deep, and swift, and red. 

He dar'd not fling the body in 

For fear of faces dim, 
And arms were wav'd in the wild water 

To thrust it back to him. 

'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot 
Turn'd from the Brig of Dread, 

And the dreadful foam of the wild water 
Had splash 'd the body red. 

For days and nights ha wander'd on 
Upon an open plain, 



280 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



And the days went by like blinding mist, 
And the nights like rushing rain. 

For days and nights he wander'd on, 

All thro' the Wood of Woe ; 
And the nights went by like moaning wind, 

And the days like drifting snow. 

S T was the soul of Judas Iscariot 

Came with a weary face 
Alone, alone, and all alone, 

Alone in a lonely place ! 

He wander'd east, he wander'd west, 

And heard no human sound ; 
For months and years, in grief and tears, 

He wander'd round and round. 

For months and years, in grief and tears, 

He walk'd the silent night ; 
Then the soul of Judas Iscariot 

Perceiv'd a far-off light. 

A far-off light across the waste, 

As dim as dim might be, 
That came and went like a lighthouse 
gleam 

On a black night at sea. 

'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot 
CrawPd to the distant gleam ; 

And the rain came down, and the rain was 

blown 
Against him with a scream. 

For days and nights he wander'd on, 

Push'd on by hands behind ; 
And the days went by like black, black 
rain, 

And the nights like rushing wind. 

*T was the soul of Judas Iscariot, 

Strange, and sad, and tall, 
Stood all alone at dead of night 

Before a lighted hall. 

And the wold was white with snow, 
And his foot-marks black and damp, 

And the ghost of the silver Moon arose, 
Holding her yellow lamp. 

And the icicles were on the eaves, 
And the walls were deep with white, 

And the shadows of the guests within 
Pass'd on the window light. 



The shadows of the wedding guests 

Did strangely come and go, 
And the body of Judas Iscariot 

Lay stretch'd along the snow. 

The body of Judas Iscariot 

Lay stretch'd along the snow ; 
'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot 

Ran swiftly to and fro. 

To and fro, and up and down, 

He ran so swiftly there, 
As round and round the frozen Pole 

Glideth the lean white bear. 

'Twas the Bridegroom sat at the table- 
head, 

And the lights burn'd bright and clear 
" Oh, who is that," the Bridegroom said, 

" Whose weary feet I hear ? " 

'T was one look'd from the lighted hall, 

And answer'd soft and slow, 
" It is a wolf runs up and down 

With a black track in the snow. " 

The Bridegroom in his robe of white 

Sat at the table-head 
" Oh, who is that who moans without ? " 

The blessed Bridegroom said. 

'T was one look'd from the lighted hall, 

And answer'd fierce and low, 
" 'T is the soul of Judas Iscariot 

Gliding to and fro." 

'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot 

Did hush itself and stand, 
And saw the Bridegroom at the door 

With a light in his hand. 

The Bridegroom stood in the open door, 

And he was clad in white, 
And far within the Lord's Supper 

Was spread so long and bright. 

The Bridegroom shaded his eyes and 

look'd, 

And his face was bright to see 
" What dost thou here at the Lord's Sup 
per 
With thy body's sins ? " said he. 



'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot 
Stood black, and sad, and bare 






ROBERT BUCHANAN 



281 



*I have wander'd many nights and days ; 
There is no light elsewhere. " 

T was the wedding guests cried out within, 
And their eyes were fierce and bright 

u Scourge the soul of Judas Iscariot 
Away into the night 1 " 

The Bridegroom stood in the open door, 
And he wav'd hands still and slow, 

And the third time that he wav'd his hands 
The air was thick with snow. 

And of every flake of falling snow, 

Before it touch'd the ground, 
There came a dove, and a thousand doves 

Made sweet sound. 

T was the body of Judas Iscariot 

Floated away full fleet, 
And the wings of the doves that bare it off 

Were like its winding-sheet. 

was the Bridegroom stood at the open 

door, 
And beckon'd, smiling sweet ; 

was the soul of Judas Iscariot 
Stole in, and fell at his feet. 

1 The Holy Supper is spread within, 
And the many candles shine, 

I have waited long for thee 
Before I pour'd the wine ! " 

supper wine is pour'd at last, 
The lights burn bright and fair, 

iriot washes the Bridegroom's feet, 
And dries them with his hair. 

SPRING SONG IN THE CITY 

WHO remains in London, 

In the streets with me, 
Now that Spring is blowing 

Warm winds from the sea ; 
Now that trees grow green and tall, 

Now the sun shines mellow, 
And with moist primroses all 

English lanes are yellow ? 

Little barefoot maiden, 

Selling violets blue, 
Hast thou ever pictur'd 

Where the sweetlings grew ? 



Oh, the warm wild woodland ways, 

Deep in dewy grasses, 
Where the wind-blown shadow strays^ 

Scented as it passes I 

Pedlar breathing deeply, 

Toiling into town, 
With the dusty highway 

You are dusky brown ; 
Hast thou seen by daisied leas, 

And by rivers flowing, 
Lilac-ringlets which the breeze 

Loosens lightly blowing ? 

Out of yonder wagon 

Pleasant hay-scents float, 
He who drives it carries 

A daisy in his coat : 
Oh, the English meadows, fair 

Far beyond all praises I 
Freckled orchids everywhere 

Mid the snow of daisies I 

Now in busy silence 

Broods the nightingale, 
Choosing his love's dwelling 

In a dimpled dale ; 
Round the leafy bower they raise 

Rose-trees wild are springing ; 
Underneath, thro' the green haze, 

Bounds the brooklet singing. 

And his love is silent 

As a bird can be, 
For the red buds only 

Fill the red rose-tree ; 
Just as buds and blossoms blow 

He 11 begin his tune, 
When all is green and roses glow 

Underneath the moon. 

Nowhere in the valleys 

Will the wind be still, 
Everything is waving, 

Wagging at his will : 
Blows the milkmaid's kirtle clean 



With her hand press'd on it ; 
ghtly o'er the hedge so green 
Blows the ploughboy's bonnet. 



Oh, to be a-roaroin? 

In an English dell I 
Every nook is wealthy, 

All the world looks well, 



282 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



Tinted soft the Heavens glow, 

Over Earth and Ocean, 
Waters flow, breezes blow, 

All is light and motion ! 

THE WAKE OF TIM O'HARA 
(SEVEN DIALS) 

To the Wake of O'Hara 

Came company ; 
All St. Patrick's Alley 

Was there to see, 
With the friends and kinsmen 

Of the family. 

On the long deal table lay Tim in white, 
And at his pillow the burning light. 
Pale as himself, with the tears on her 

cheek, 

The mother receiv'd us, too full to speak ; 
But she heap'd the fire, and on the board 
Set the black bottle with never a word, 
While the company gather'd, one and all, 
Men and women, big and small : 
Not one in the Alley but felt a call 
To the Wake of Tim O'Hara. 

At the face of O'Hara, 
All white with sleep, 
Not one of the women 

But took a peep, 
And the wives new-wedded 

Began to weep. 

The mothers gather'd round about, 
And prais'd the linen and laying out, 
For white as snow was his winding-sheet, 
And all was peaceful, and clean, and sweet ; 
And the old wives, praising the blessed 

dead, 

Were thronging around the old press-bed, 
Where O'Hara's widow, tatter'd and torn, 
Held to her bosom the babe new-born, 
And star'd all around her, with eyes for 
lorn, 
At the Wake of Tim O'Hara. 

For the heart of O'Hara 

Was good as gold, 
And the life of O'Hara 
Was bright and bold, 
And his smile was precious 

To young and old ! 
Gay as a guinea, wet or dry, 
With a smiling mouth, and a twinkliug 
eye ! 



Had ever an answer for chaff and fun ; 
Would fight like a lion, with any one ! 
Not a neighbor of any trade 
But knew some joke that the boy had 

made ; 

Not a neighbor, dull or bright, 
But minded something frolic or fight, 
And whisper' d it round the fire that night. 
At the Wake of Tim O'Hara. 

"To God be glory 

In death and life, 
He 's taken O'Hara 

From trouble and strife ! " 
Said one-eyed Biddy, 

The apple- wife. 
"God bless old Ireland !" said Mistress 

Hart, 

Mother to Mike of the donkey-cart ; 
" God bless old Ireland till all be done, 
She never made wake for a better son ! " 
And all join'd chorus, and each one said 
Something kind of the boy that was dead ; 
And the bottle went round from lip to lip, 
And the weeping widow, for fellowship, 
Took the glass of old Biddy and had a sip, 
At the Wake of Tim O'Hara. 

Then we drank to O'Hara 
With drams to the brim, 
While the face of O'Hara 

Look'd on so grim, 
In the corpse-light shining 

Yellow and dim. 

The cup of liquor went round again, 
And the talk grew louder at every drain ; 
Louder the tongue of the women grew ! 
The lips of the boys were loosening too ! 
The widow her weary eyelids clos'd, 
And, soothed by the drop o' drink, she 

doz'd ; 

The mother brighten'd and laugh'd to hear 
Of O'Hara's fight with the grenadier, 
And the hearts of all took better cheer, 
At the Wake of Tim O'Hara. 

Tho' the face of O'Hara 

Look'd on so wan, 
In the chimney-corner 

The row began 
. Lame Tony was in it, 

The oyster-man ; 
For a dirty low thief from the North 

came near, 
And whistled " Boyne Water " in bis ear, 



ROBERT BUCHANAN 



ind Tony, with never a word of grace, 
lung out his fist in the blackguard's face ; 
And the girls and women sereani'd out for 

fright, 
And the men that were drunkest began to 

fight : 

Over the tables and chairs they threw, 
The corpse-light tumbled, the trouble 

grew, 

The new-born join'd in the hullabaloo, 
At the Wake of Tim O'Hara. 

" Be still ! be silent I 

Ye do a sin ! 
Shame be his portion 

Who dares begin ! " 
'T was Father O'Connor 

Just enter'd in ! 

All look'd down, and the row was done, 
And sham'd and sorry was every one ; 
But the Priest just smil'd quite easy and 

free 
* Would ye wake the poor boy from his 

sleep ? " said he : 

And he said a prayer, with a shining face, 
Till a kind of brightness filPd the place ; 
The women lit up the dim corpse-light, 
The men were quieter at the sight, 
And the peace of the Lord fell on all that 

night 
At the Wake of Tim O'Hara. 

TWO SONS 

I HAVE two sons, wife 
Two, and yet the same ; 
One his wild way runs, wife, 

Bringing us to shame. 
The one is bearded, sunburnt, grim, and 

fights across the sea, 

The other is a little child who sits upon 
your knee. 

One is fierce and cold, wife, 

As the wayward deep ; 
Him no arms could hold, wife, 

Him no breast could keep. 
03 has tried our hearts for many a year, 

net broken them ; for he 
Is still the sinless little one that sits upon 
your knee. 

One may fall in fight, wife 

Is he not our son ? 
Pray with all your might, wife, 

For the wayward one ; 



Pray for the dark, rough soldier, who figbU 

across tin- -,.;,, 
Because you love the little shade who smiles 

upon your knee*. 

One across the foam, wife, 

As I speak may fall ; 
But this one at home, wife, 

Cannot die at all. 
They both are only one ; and how thankful 

should we be, 

We cannot lose the darling son who sits 
upon your knee T 

ON A YOUNG POETESS'S GRAVE 

UNDER her gentle seeing, 

In her delicate little hand, 
They placed the Book of Being, 

To read and understand. 

The Book was mighty and olden, 
Yea, worn and eaten with age ; 

Though the letters look'd great and golden, 
She could not read a page. 

The letters flutter'd before her, 

And all look'd sweetly wild : 
Death saw her, and bent o'er her, 

As she pouted her lips and smil'd. 

And weary a little with tracing 

The Book, she look'd aside, 
And lightly smiling, and placing 

A Flower in its leaves, she died. 

She died, but her sweetness fled not, 

As fly the things of power, 
For the Book wherein she read not 

Is the sweeter for the Flower. 

THE SUMMER POOL 

THERE is a singing in the summer air, 
The blue and brown moths flutter o'er the 

grass, 

The stubble bird is creaking in the wheat, 
And perch'd upon the honeysuckle-hedge 
Pipes the green linnet. Oh, the golden 

world ! 

The stir of life on every blade of grass, 
The motion and the joy on every bough, 
The glad feast everywhere, for things that 

love 
The sunshine, and for things that love U* 

shade! 



28 4 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



Aimlessly wandering with weary feet, 
Watching the wool-white clouds that wan 
der by, 

I come upon a lonely place of shade, 
A still green Pool, where with soft sound 

and stir 

The shadows of o'erhanging branches sleep, 
tSave where they leave one dreamy space of 

blue, 

O'er whose soft stillness ever and anon 
The feathery cirrus blows. Here un 
aware 

I pause, and leaning on my staff I add 
A shadow to the shadows ; and behold ! 
Dim dreams steal down upon me, with a 

hum 

Of little wings, a murmuring of boughs, 
The dusky stir and motion dwelling here, 
'Within this small green world. O'ershad- 

ow'd 

By dusky greenery, tho' all around 
The sunshine throbs on fields of wheat 

and bean, 

Downward I gaze into the dreamy blue, 
And pass into a waking sleep, wherein 
The green boughs rustle, feathery wreaths 

of cloud 

Pass softly, piloted by golden airs : 
The air is still, no birds sing any 

more, 

And helpless as a tiny flying thing, 
I am alone in all the world with God. 

The wind dies not a leaf stirs on the 

Pool 
The fly scarce moves ; earth seems to hold 

her breath 

Until her heart stops, listening silently 
For the far footsteps of the coming rain ! 

While thus I pause, it seems that I have 

gain'd 

New eyes to see ; my brain grows sensitive 
To trivial things that, at another hour, 
Had pass'd unheeded. Suddenly the air 
Shivers, the shadows in whose midst I 

stand 
.Tremble and blacken the blue eye o' the 

' Pool 

is clos'd and clouded ; with a sudden gleam 
Oiling its wings, a swallow darteth past, 
And weedling flowers beneath my feet 

thrust up 
Their leaves, to feel the fragrant shower. 

Oh, hark! 



The thirsty leaves are troubled into sighs, 
And up above me, on the glistening boughs, 
Patters the summer rain ! 

Into a nook, 

Screen'd by thick foliage of oak and beech, 
I creep for shelter ; and the summer shower 
Murmurs around me. Oh, the drowsy 

sounds ! 
The pattering rain, the numerous sigh of 

leaves, 
The deep, warm breathing of the scented 

air, 

Sink sweet into my soul until at last 
Comes the soft ceasing of the gentle fall, 
And lo ! the eye of blue within the Pool 
Opens again, while with a silvern gleam 
Dew-diamonds twinkle moistly on the 

leaves, 

Or, shaken downward by the summer wind, 
Fall melting on the Pool in rings of light ! 

WE ARE CHILDREN 

CHILDREN indeed are we children that 

wait 

Within a wondrous dwelling, while on high 
Stretch the sad vapors and the voiceless 

sky ; 

The house is fair, yet all is desolate 
Because our Father comes not ; clouds of 

fate 

Sadden above us shivering we espy 
The passing rain, the cloud before the gate, 
And cry to one another, " He is nigh ! " 
At early morning, with a shining Face, 
He left us innocent and lily-crown'd ; 
And now this late night cometh on 

apace 
We hold each other's hands and look 

around, 
Frighted at our own shades ! Heaven send 

us grace ! 
When He returns, all will be sleeping 

sound. 

WHEN WE ARE ALL ASLEEP 

WHEN He returns, and finds the world so 

drear, 
All sleeping, young and old, unfair and 

fair, 
Will he stoop down and whisper in each 

ear, 
" Awaken ! " or for pity's sake forbear, 



ROBERT BUCHANAN 






Saying, "How shall I meet their frozen 

stare 

Of wonder, and their eyes so full of fear ? 
How shall I comfort them in their despair, 
If they cry out, * Too late ! let us sleep 

here'?" 
Perchance He will not wake us up, but 

when 

He sees us look so happy in our rest, 
Will murmur, " Poor dead women and dead 

men I 
Dire was their doom, and weary was their 

quest. 

Wherefore awake them into life again ? 
Let them sleep on untroubled it is best." 

THE DREAM OF THE WORLD 
WITHOUT DEATH 

FROM " THE BOOK OF ORM " 

Now, sitting by her side, worn out with 

weeping, 

Behold, I fell to sleep, and had a vision, 
Wherein I heard a wondrous Voice inton 
ing : 

Crying aloud, " The Master on His throne 
Openeth now the seventh seal of wonder, 
And beckoneth back the angel men name 
Death. 

" And at His feet the mighty Angel kneel- 

eth, 
Breathing not; and the Lord doth look 

upon him, 

Saying, 'Thy wanderings on earth are 
ended.' 

u And lo ! the mighty Shadow sitteth idle 
Even at the silver gates of heaven, 
Drowsily looking in on quiet waters, 
And puts his silence among men no longer." 



The world was very quiet. Men in traffic 
Cast looks over their shoulders ; pallid sea 
men 
Shiver'd to walk upon the decks alone ; 

And women barr'd their doors with bars of 
iron, 

In the silence of the night ; and at the sun 
rise 

Trembled behind the husbandmen afield. 



I could not see a kirkyard near or fax ; 
I thirsted for a green rave, and my vision 
Was weary for the white gleam of a tomb 
stone. 

But barkening dumbly, ever and anon 
I heard a cry out of a human dwelling, 
And felt the cold wind of a lost one's going. 

One struck a brother fiercely, and he fell, 
And faded in a darkness ; and that other 
Tore his hair, and was afraid, and could 
not perish. 

One struck his aged mother on the mouth, 
And she vanish'd with a gray grief from 

his hearth-stone. 
One melted from her bairn, and on the 

ground 

With sweet unconscious eyes the bairn laj 
smiling. 

And many made a weeping among moun 
tains, 

And hid themselves in caverns, and were 
drunken. 

I heard a voice from out the beauteous earth, 
Whose side roll'd up from winter into 

summer, 
Crying, " I am grievous for my children." 

I heard a voice from out the hoary ocean, 
Crying, " Burial in the breast of me were 

better, 
Yea, burial in the salt flags and green 

crystals." 

I heard a voice from out the hollow ether, 
Saying, "The thing ye curs'd hath been 

abolish'd 
Corruption and decay, and dissolution ! ' 

And the world shriek'd, and the summer 
time was bitter, 

And men and women fear'd the air behind 
them ; 

And for lack of its green graves the world 
was hateful. 



Now at the bottom of a snowy mountain 
I came upon a woman thin with sorrow, 
Whose voice was like the crying of ft M 
gull : 



286 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



Saying, " O Angel of the Lord, come hither, 
And bring me him I seek for on thy bosom, 
That I may close his eyelids and embrace 
him. 

" I curse tliee that I cannot look upon him ! 
I curse thee that I know not he is sleep 
ing ! 
Yet know that he has vanish'd upon God ! 

<* I laid my little girl upon a wood-bier, 
And very sweet she seem'd, and near unto 

me ; 
And slipping flowers into her shroud was 

comfort. 

" I put my silver mother in the darkness, 
And kiss'd her, and was solaced by her 

kisses, 
And set a stone, to mark the place, above 

her. 

"And green, green were their sleeping- 
places, 

So green that it was pleasant to remem 
ber 

That I and my tall man would sleep beside 
them. 

" The closing of dead eyelids is not dread 
ful, 

For comfort comes upon us when we close 
them, 

And tears fall, and our sorrow grows famil 
iar ; . 

" And we can sit above them where they 

slumber, 

And spin a dreamy pain into a sweetness, 
And know indeed that we are very near 

them. 

"But to reach out empty arms is surely 
dreadful, 

And to feel the hollow empty world is 
awful, 

And bitter grows the silence and the dis 
tance. 

" There is no space for grieving or for weep 
ing ; 

No touch, no cold, no agony to strive with, 
And nothing but a horror and a blankness ! " 



Now behold I saw a woman in a mud-hut 
Raking the white spent embers with her 

fingers, 
And fouling her bright hair witl the white 

ashes. 

Her mouth was very bitter with the ashes s 
Her eyes with dust were blinded ; and her 

sorrow 
Sobb'd in the throat of her like gurgling 

water. 

And all around the voiceless hills were 

hoary, 
But red lights scorch'd their edges ; and 

above her 
There was a soundless trouble of the vapors. 

" Whither, and whither," said the woman, 
" O Spirit of the Lord, hast thou couvey'u 

them, 
My little ones, my little son and daughter ? 

" For, lo ! we wander'd forth at early morn 
ing* 

And winds were blowing round us, and 
their mouths 

Blew rose-buds to the rose-buds, and their 
eyes 

"Look'd violets at the violets, and their 

hair 
Made sunshine in the sunshine, and their 

passing 
Left a pleasure in the dewy leaves behind 



i pi 
the 



" And suddenly my little son looked upward 
And his eyes were dried like dew-drops ; 

and his going 
Was like a blow of fire upon my face j 

" And my little son was gone. My little 

daughter 
Look'd round me for him, clinging to my 

vesture ; 
But the Lord had drawn him from me, and 

I knew it 

" By the sign He gives the stricken, that 

the lost one 
Lingers nowhere on the earth, on the hill 

or valley, 
Neither underneath the grasses nor the 

tree-roots. 



ROBERT BUCHANAN 



11 And my shriek was like the splitting of an 

ice-reef, 
And I sank among my hair, and all my 

palm 
Was moist and warm where the little hand 

had till'd it. 

* Tl\en I fled and sought him wildly, hither 

and thither 
Though I knew that he was stricken from 

ine wholly . 
By the token that the Spirit gives the 

stricken. 

" I sought him in the sunlight and the star 
light, 

I sought him in great forests, and in waters 
Where I saw my own pale image looking 
at me. 

"And I forgot my little bright-hair'd 

daughter, 
Though her voice was like a wild-bird's 

far behind me, 
Till the voice ceas'd, and the universe was 

silent. 

" And stilly, in the starlight, came I back 
ward 

To the forest where I miss'd him ; and no 
voices 

Brake the stillness as I stoop'd down in 
the starlight, 

" And saw two little shoes filled up with 
dew, 

And no mark of little footsteps any far 
ther, 

And knew my little daughter had gone 
also." 



But beasts died ; yea, the cattle in the 

yoke, 
The milk-cow in the meadow, and the 

sheep, 
And the dog upon the doorstep : and men 

envied. 

And birds died ; yea, the eagle at the sun- 
gate, 

The swan upon the waters, and the farm- 
fowl, 

And the swallows on the housetops : and 
men envied. 



And reptiles ; yea, the toad upon the road* 

side, 
The slimy, speckled snake among the 

grass, 
The lizard on the ruin : and men envied. 

The dog in lonely places cried not over 
The body of his master; but it iniss'd 

him, 

And whin'd into the air, and died, and rot 
ted. 

The traveller's horse lay swollen in the 
pathway, 

And the blue fly fed upon it ; but no trav 
eller 

Was there ; nay, not his footprint on the 
ground. 

The cat mew'd in the midnight, and the 

blind 
Grave a rustle, and the lamp burnt blue 

and faint, 
And the father's bed was empty in the 

morning. 

The mother fell to sleep beside the cra 
dle, 

Rocking it, while she slumber'd, with her 
foot, 

And waken'd, and the cradle there was 
empty. 

I saw a two-years' child, and he was play 
ing; 

And he found a dead white bird upon the 
doorway, 

And laugh'd, and ran to show it to his 
mother. 

The mother moan'd, and clutch'd him, and 

was bitter, 
And flung the dead white bird across the 

threshold ; 
And arother white bird flitted round and 

round it, 

And utter'd a sharp cry, and twittei'd and 

twitter'd, 
And lit beside its dead mate, and grew 

Strewing it over with green leaves and yel 
low. 



288 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



So far, so far to seek for were the limits 
Of affliction; and men's terror grew a 

homeless 
Terror, yea, and a- fatal sense of blankness. 

There was no little token of distraction, 
There was no visible presence of bereave 
ment, 

Such as the mourner easeth out his heart 
on. 

There was no comfort in the slow farewell, 
No gentle shutting of beloved eyes, 
Nor beautiful breedings over sleeping fea 
tures. 

There were no kisses on familiar faces, 
No weaving of white grave-clothes, no 

last pondering 

Over the still wax cheeks and folded fin 
gers. 

There was no putting tokens under pillows, 
There was no dreadful beauty slowly fading, 
Fading like moonlight softly into darkness. 

There were no churchyard paths to walk 

on, thinking 

How near the well-beloved ones are lying. 
There were no sweet green graves to sit 

and muse on, 

Till grief should grow a summer medita 
tion, 

The shadow of the passing of an angel, 
And sleeping should seem easy, and not 
cruel. 

Nothing but wondrous parting and a 
blankness. 



But I woke, and, lo ! the burthen was up 
lifted, 

And I pray'd within the chamber where 
she slumber'd, 

.And my tears flow'd fast and free, but 
were not bitter. 

J eas'd my heart three days by watching 

near her, 
And made her pillow sweet with scent and 

flowers, 
And could bear at last to put her in the 

darkness. 



And I heard the kirk-bells ringing very 

slowly, 
And the priests were in their vestments, 

and the earth 
Dripp'd awful on the hard wood, yet I bore 

it. 

And I cried, " O unseen Sender of Corrup 

tion, 

I bless Thee for the wonder of Thy mercy. 
Which softeneth the mystery and the park 

ing: 

" I bless thee for the change and for the 
comfort, 

The bloomless face, shut eyes, and waxen 
fingers, 

For Sleeping, and for Silence, and Corrup 
tion." 

THE FAERY FOSTER-MOTHER 

BRIGHT Eyes, Light Eyes ! Daughter of a 

Fay! 

I had not been a wedded wife a twelve 
month and a day, 
I had not nurs'd my little one a month 

upon my knee, 
When down among the blue-bell banks 

rose elfins three times three, 
They gripp'd me by the raven hair, I could 

not cry for fear, 
They put a hempen rope around my waist 

and dragg'd me here, 
They made me sit and give thee suck as 

mortal mothers can, 
Bright Eyes, Light Eyes ! strange and 

weak and wan ! 

Dim Face, Grim Face ! lie ye there so 

still ? 
Thy red, red lips are at my breast, andthou 

may'st suck thy fill ; 
But know ye, tho' I hold thee firm, anc! 

rock thee to and fro, 
'T is not to soothe thee into sleep, but just 

to still my woe ? 
And know ye, when I lean so calm against 

the wall of stone, 
'T is when I shut my eyes and try to think 

thou art mine own ? 
And know ye, tho' my milk be here, my 

heart is far away, 
Dim Face, Grim Face ! Daughter of a 

Fay! 



ROBERT BUCHANAN 



289 



Gold Hair, Cold Hair ! Daughter to a Ki 

Wrapp'd in bunds of snow-white silk with 
jewels glittering, 

Tiny slippers of the gold upon thy feet so 
thin, 

Silver cradle velvet-lin'd for thee to slum 
ber in, 

Pygmy pages, crimson-hair'd, to serve thee 
on their knees, 

To fan thy face with ferns and bring thee 
honey bags of bees, 

I was but a peasant lass, my babe had but 
the milk, 

Gold Hair, Cold Hair ! raimented in silk ! 

Pale Thing, Frail Thing ! dumb and weak 

and thin, 
Altho' thou ne'er dost utter sigh thou'rt 

shadow'd with a sin ; 
Thy minnie scorns to suckle thee, thy min- 

nie is an elf, 
Upon a bed of rose's-leaves she lies and 

fans herself ; 
And though my heart is aching so for one 

afar from me, 
I often look into thy face and drop a tear 

for thee, 

And I am but a peasant born, a lowly cot 
ter's wife, 
Pale Thing, Frail Thing ! sucking at my life ! 

Weak Thing, Meek Thing ! take no blame 

from me^ 
Altho' my babe may moan for lack of what 

I give to thee ; 
For though thou art a faery child, and 

though thou art my woe, 
To feel thee sucking at my breast is all 

the bliss I know ; 
It soothes me, tho' afar away I hear my 

daughter call, 
My heart were broken if I felt no little 

lips at all ! 
If I had none to tend at all, to be its nurse 

and slave, 
Weak Thing, Meek Thing! I should 

shriek and rave I 

Bright Eyes, Light Eyes ! lying on my knee ! 
If soon I be not taken back unto mine 

own countree, 
To feel my own babe's little lips, as I am 

feeling thine, 
To smooth the golden threads of hair, to 

see the blue eyes shine, 



I'll lean my head against the vail and 

close iny weary eyes. 
And think my own babe draws the milk 

with balmy pauts and sighs, 
And smile and bless my little one and 

sweetly pass away, 
Bright Eyes, Light Eyes ! Daughter of a 

Fay! 

THE CHURCHYARD 

How slowly creeps the hand of Time 

On the old clock's green-mantled face I 
Yea, slowly as those ivies climb, 

The hours roll round with patient pace ; 
The drowsy rooks caw on the tower, 

The tame doves hover round and round ; 
Below, the slow grass hour by hour 

Makes green God's sleeping-ground. 

All moves, but nothing here is swift ; 

The grass grows deep, the green boughs 

shoot; 
From east to west the shadows drift ; 

The earth feels heavenward underfoot ; 
The slow stream through the bridge doth 
stray 

With water-lilies on its marge, 
And slowly, pil'd with scented hay, 

Creeps by the silent barge. 

All stirs, but nothing here is Joud : 

The cushat broods, the cuckoo cries ; 
Faint, far up, under a white cloud, 

The lark trills soft to earth and skies ; 
And underneath the green graves rest ; 

And through the place, with slow foot 
falls, 
With snowy cambric on his breast, 

The old gray Vicar crawls. 

And close at hand, to see him come, 

Clustering at the playground gate, 
The urchins of the schoolhouse, dumb 

And bashful, hang the head and wait ; 
The little maidens curtsey deep. 

The boys their forelocks touch 

while, 
The Vicar sees them, half asleep, 

And smiles a sleepy smile. 

Slow as the hand on the clock's face. 
Slow as the white cloud in the sky, 

He cometh now with tottering pace 
To the old vicarage hard by 



290 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



Sniother'd it stands in ivy leaves, 

Laurels and yews make dark the ground ; 

The swifts that build beneath the eaves 
Wheel in still circles round. 

And from the portal, green and dark, 
He glances at the church-clock old 



Gray soul ! why seek his eyes to mark 
The creeping of that finger cold ? 

He cannot see, but still as stone 
He pauses, listening for the chime, 

And hears from that green tower intone 
The eternal voice of Time. 



A SONG OF WINTER 

BARB'D blossom of the guarded gorse, 

I love thee where I see thee shine : 
Thou sweetener of our common-ways, 
And brightener of our wintry days. 

Flower of the gorse, the rose is dead, 

Thou art undying, O be mine ! 
Be mine with all thy thorns, and prest 
Close on a heart that asks not rest. 

I pluck thee and thy stigma set 

Upon my breast and on my brow ; 
Blow, buds, and plenish so my wreath 
That none may know the wounds beneath. 

crown of thorn that seem'st of gold, 
No festal coronal art thou ; 

Thy honey'd blossoms are but hives 
That guard the growth of winged lives. 

1 saw thee in the time of flowers 
As sunshine spilPd upon the land, 

Or burning bushes all ablaze 

With sacred fire ; but went my ways ; 

I went my ways, and as I went 

Pluck'd kindlier blooms on either hand ; 
Now of those blooms so passing sweet 
.None lives to stay my passing feet. 

And still thy lamp upon the hill 

Feeds on the autumn's dying sigh, 
And from thy midst comes murmuring 
A music sweeter than in spring. 

Barb'd blossoms of the guarded gorse, 

Be mine to wear until I die, 
And mine the wounds of love which still 
Bear witness to his human will. 



TO A MOTH THAT DRINKETH 
OF THE RIPE OCTOBER 



A MOTH belated, sun and zephyr-kist, 
Trembling about a pale arbutus bell, 
Probing to wildering depths its honey'd 

cell, 

A noonday thief, a downy sensualist ! 
Not vainly, sprite, thou drawest careless 

breath, 
Strikest ambrosia from the cool-cupp'd 

flowers, 
And flutterest through the soft, uncounted 

hours, 

To drop at last in unawaited death ; 
'T is something to be glad ! and those fine 

thrills, 
Which move thee, to my lip have drawn 

the smile 
Wherewith we look on joy. Drink ! drown 

thine ills, 

If ill have any part in thee ; erewhile 
May the pent force thy bounded life, set 

free, 
Fill larger sphere with equal ecstasy. 

II 

With what fine organs art thou dower'd, 

frail elf ! 

Thy harp is pitch'd too high for dull annoy. 
Thy life a love-feast, and a silent joy, 
As mute and rapt as Passion's silent self. 
I turn from thee, and see the swallow 

sweep 
Like a wing'd will, and the keen-scented 

hound 
That snuffs with rapture at the tainted 

ground, 
All things that freely course, that swim 01 

leap, 



EMILY PFEIFFER FREDERIC MYERS 



291 



Then, hearing glad-voiced creatures men 

call dumb, 
I feel my heart, oft sinking 'neath the 

weight 

Of Nature's sorrow, lighten at the sum 
Of Nature's joy ; its half-unfolded fate 
Breathes hope for all but those beneath 

the ban 
Of the inquisitor and tyrant, man. 

TO THE HERALD HONEYSUCKLE 

CP Honeysuckle ! in the silent eve 
r hen wild-rose cups are clos'd, and when 

each bird 

Is sleeping by its mate, then all unheard 
The dew's soft kiss thy wakeful lips receive. 



T is then the sighs that throng them seem 

to weave 

A spell whereby the drowsy night is stirr'd 
To fervid meanings, which no fullest 

word 

Of speech or song so sweetly could achieve. 
Herald of bliss ! whose fragrant trumpet 

blew 
Love's title to our hearts ere love was 

known, 
'T was well thy flourish told a tale so 

true, 
Well that Love's dazzling presence was 

foreshown ; 

Had his descent on us been as the dew 
On thee, our rarer sense he had o'er- 

thrown. 



jfrcberic f&ifttam I)cnrp 



FROM "SAINT PAUL" 

as some bard on isles of the Aegean 
Lovely and eager when the earth was 

young, 

irning to hurl his heart into a paean, 
Praise of the hero from whose loins he 

sprung ; 

[e, I suppose, with such a care to carry, 
Wander'd disconsolate and waited long, 
liting his breast, wherein the notes would 

tarry, 
Chiding the slumber of the seed of song : 

Then in the sudden glory of a minute 
Airy and excellent the proem came, 

Rending his bosom, for a god was in it, 
Waking the seed, for it had burst in flame. 

So even I athirst for his inspiring, 

I who have talk'd with Him forget again, 

Yes, many days with sobs and with desiring 
Offer to God a patience and a pain ; 

Then through the mid complaint of my 

confession, 
Then through the pang and passion of 

my prayer, 

Leaps with a start the shock of his posses 
sion, 

Thrills me and touches, and the Lord is 
there. 



Lo, if some pen should write upon your 
rafter 

MENE and MENE in the folds of flame, 
Think you could any memories thereafter 

Wholly retrace the couplet as it came ? 

Lo, if some strange intelligible thunder 
Sang to the earth the secret of a star, 
Scarce could ye catch, for terror and for 

wonder, 

Shreds of the story that was peal'd so 
far. 

Scarcely I catch the words of his reveal 
ing. 

Hardly I hear Him, dimly understand, 
Only the Power that is within me pealing 

Lives on ray lips and beckons to my hand. 

Whoso has felt the Spirit of the Highest 
Cannot confound nor doubt Him nor 

deny : 
Yea, with one voice, O world, though thoo 

deniest, 
Stand thou on that side, for on this am I. 

Rather the earth shall doubt when her 

retrieving 
Pours in the rain and rushes from the 

sod, 
Rather than he for whom the great 

ceiving 
Stirs in his soul to quicken into God. 



2 9 2 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



Ay, though thou then shouldst strike him 

from his glory 
Blind and tormented, madden'd and 

alone, 
Even on the cross would he maintain his 

story, 

Yes, and in hell would whisper, I have 
known. 



A SONG 

THE pouring music, soft and strong, 
Some God within her soul has lit, 

Her face is rosy with the song 

And her gray eyes are sweet with it. 

A woman so with singing fir'd, 

Has earth a lovelier sight than this ? 

Oh, he that look'd had soon desir'd 
Those lips to fasten with a kiss. 

But let not him that race begin 

Who seeks not toward its utmost goal ; 
Give me an hour for drinking in 

Her fragrant and her early soul. 

To happier hearts I leave the rest, 
Who less and more than I shall know, 

For me, world-weary, it is best 
To listen for an hour and go : 

To lift her hand, and press, and part, 
And think upon her long and long, 

And bear for ever in my heart 
The tender traces of a song. 



ON A GRAVE AT GRINDEL- 
WALD 

HERE let us leave him ; for his shroud the 

snow, 
For funeral-lamps he has the planets 

seven, 

For a great sign the icy stair shall go 
Between the heights to heaven. 

One moment stood he as the angels 
stand, 

High in the stainless eminence of air ; 
The next, he was not, to his fatherland 

Translated unaware. 



A LAST APPEAL 

SOMEWHERE, somewhere, God un 

known, 
Exist and be ! 

1 am dying ; I am all alone ; 

I must have thee ! 

God ! God ! my sense, my soul, my all, 

Dies in the cry : 
Saw'st thou the faint star flame and fall ? 

Ah ! it was I. 

IMMORTALITY 

So when the old delight is born anew, 
And God re-animates the early bliss, 
Seems it not all as one first trembling kiss 
Ere soul knew soul with whom she has to 

do? 

O nights how desolate, O days how few, 
O death in life, if life be this, be this ! 
O weigh'd alone as one shall win or miss 
The faint eternity which shines therethro' ! 
Lo, all that age is as a speck of sand 
Lost on the long beach where the tides are 

free, 

And no man metes it in his hollow hand 
Nor cares to ponder it, how small it be ; 
At ebb it lies forgotten on the land 
And at full tide forgotten in the sea. 

A LETTER FROM NEWPORT 

(paly K' adavdrovs Kal ay^ipcas [s./Jifvai aiel 
its r6r' firavridfffl or' 'idoves &6pooi flev. 

THE crimson leafage fires the lawn, 

The pil'd hydrangeas blazing glow ; 
How blue the vault of breezy dawn 

Illumes the Atlantic's crested snow ! 
'Twixt sea and sands how fair to ride 

Through whispering airs a starlit way, 
And watch those flashing towers divide 

Heaven's darkness from the darkling 
bay! 

Ah, friend, how vain their pedant's part, 

Their hurrying toils how idly spent, 
How have they wrong'd the gentler heart 

Which thrills the awakening continent, 
Who have not learnt on this bright shore 

What sweetness issues from the strong, 
Where flowerless forest, cataract-roar, 

Have found a blossom and a song ! 



FREDERIC MYERS DOWDEN 



293 



Ah, what imperial force of fate 

Links our one race in high emprize ! 
Nor aught henceforth can separate 

Those glories mingling as they rise ; 
For one in heart, as one in speech, 

At last have Child and Mother grown, 
Fair Figures ! honoring each in each 

A beauty kindred with her own. 

Through English eyes more calmly soft 

Looks from gray deeps the appealing 

charm ; 
Reddens on English cheeks more oft 

The rose of innocent alarm ; 
Our old-world heart more gravely feels, 

Has learnt more force, more self-con 

trol ; 
For us through sterner music peals 

The full accord of soul and soul. 

But ah, the life, the smile untaught, 
The floating presence feathery-fair ! 

The eyes and aspect that have caught 
The brilliance of Columbian air ! 

No oriole through the forest flits 

More sheeny-plum'd, more gay and free ; 

On no nymph's marble forehead sits 
Proudlier a glad virginity. 



So once the Egyptian, gravely bold, 

Wander'd the Ionian folk among. 
Heard from their high Letoon roll'd 

That song the Delian maidens sung ; 
Danced in his eyes the dazzling gold, 

For with his voice the tears had sprung, 
" They die not, these ! they wax not old, 

They are ever-living, ever-young ! " 

Spread then, great land ! thine arms afar, 

Thy golden harvest westward roll ; 
Banner with banner, star with star, 

Ally the tropics and the pole ; 
There glows no gem than these more bright 

From ice to fire, from sea to sea ; 
Blossoms no fairer flower to light 

Through all thine endless empery. 



And thou come hither, friend ! thou too 

Their kingdom enter as a boy ; 
Fed with their glorious youth renew 

Thy ( 1 i 1 1 1 1 ii '( I prerogative of joy : 
Come with small question, little thought, 

Through thy worn veins what pulse 

shall flow, 
With what regrets, what fancies fraught, 

Shall silver-footed summer go : 

If round one fairest face shall meet 

Those many dreams of many fair, 
And wandering homage seek the feet 

Of one sweet queen, and linger there ; 
Or if strange winds betwixt be driven, 

Unvoyageable oceans foam, 
Nor this new earth, this airy heaven, 

For thy sad heart can mid a home. 

I SAW, I SAW THE LOVELY 
CHILD 

I SAW, I saw the lovely child, 

I watch'd her by the way, 
I learnt her gestures sweet and wild, 

Her loving eyes and gay. 

Her name ? I heard not, nay, nor care : 

Enough it was for me 
To find her innocently fair 

And delicately free. 

Oh, cease and go ere dreams be done, 

Nor trace the angel's birth, 
Nor find the Paradisal one 

A blossom of the earth ! 

Thus is it with our subtlest joys, 

How quick the soul's alarm ! 
How lightly deed or word destroys 

That evanescent charm ! 

It comes unbidden, comes unbought, 

Unfetter'd flees r way; 
His swiftest and his sweetest thought 

Can never poet say. 



<&toarl> SDotofccn 



RENUNCIANTS 

SEEMS not our breathing light ? 

Sound not our voices free ? 
Bid to Life's festal bright 

No gladder guests there be. 



Ah stranger, lay aside 
Cold prudence ! I divine 

The secret you would hide, 
And you conjecture mine. 



294 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



You too have temperate eyes, 
Have put your heart to school, 

Are prov'd. I recognize 
A brother of the rule. 

I knew it by your lip, 

A something when you smil'd, 
Which meant " close scholarship, 

A master of the guild." 

Well, and how good is life ; 

Good to be born, have breath, 
The calms good, and the strife, 

Good life, and perfect death. 

Come, for the dancers wheel, 
Join we the pleasant din, 

Comrade, it serves to feel 
The sackcloth next the skin. 



LEONARDO'S "MONNA LISA'* 

MAKE thyself known, Sibyl, or let despair 
Of knowing thee be absolute : I wait 
Hour-long and waste a soul. What word of 

fate 
Hides 'twixt the lips which smile and still 

forbear ? 

Secret perfection ! Mystery too fair ! 
Tangle the sense no more, lest I should hate 
The delicate tyranny, the inviolate 
Poise of thy folded hands, the fallen hair. 



Nay, nay, I wrong thee with rough words \ 

still be 

Serene, victorious, inaccessible ; 
Still smile but speak not ; lightest irony 
Lurk ever 'ueath thy eyelids' shadow ; still 
O'ertop our knowledge ; Sphinx of Italy, 
Allure us and reject us at thy will ! 



TWO INFINITIES 

A LONELY way, and as I went my eyes 

Could not unfasten from the Spring's 
sweet things, 

Lush-sprouted grass, and all that climbs 
and clings 

In loose, deep hedges, where the primrose 
lies 

In her own fairness, buried blooms surprise 

The plunderer bee and stop his murmur- 
ings, 

And the glad flutter of a finch's wings 

Outstartle small blue-speckled butterflies. 

Blissfully did one speedwell plot beguile 

My whole heart long ; I lov'd each sepa 
rate flower, 

Kneeling. I look'd up suddenly Dear 
God! 

There stretch'd the shining plain for many 
a mile, 

The mountains rose with what invincible 
power ! 

And how the sky was fathomless and broad ! 



FIRST OR LAST? 

A WIFE TO HER HUSBAND 

MY life ebbs from me I must die. 
Must die it has a ghostly sound, 
A far-off thunder drawing nigh, 
An echo as from underground. 
Yes, I must die who fain would live ; 
You cannot give me life alas ! 
Dear Love of mine, you can but give 
One latest kiss before I pass. 

Dear, we have had our summer bliss, 
Kisses on cheek, and lip, and brow, 
But soul to soul, as now we kiss, 
I think we never kiss'd till now. 



Fclep 

Give both your hands, and let the earth 
Roll onward let what will befall. 
This is an hour of wondrous birth, 
And can it be the end of all ? 

Ah, your sad face ! I know you think 
(Clasp me, O love, your faith is mine, 
Only my weakness made me shrink) 
That I am standing on the brink 
Of night where never dawn will shine> 
Of slumber whence I shall not wake, 
Of darkness where no life will grope ; 
I know your hopeless creed, and take 
My part therein for your dear sake, 
We stand asunder if I hope. 



MARGARET VELEY LADY CURRIE 



295 



And yet I dreara'd of a fair land 
Where you and I were met at last, 
And face to face, and hand in hand, 
Sinil'd at the sorrow overpast. 
The eastern sky was touch'd with fire, 
In the dim woodlands cooed the dove, 
Earth waited, tense with strong desire, 
For day your coming, O my love ! 
The breeze awoke to breathe your name, 
And through the leafy maze I came 
With feet that could not turn aside, 
With eyes that would not be denied 
My lips, my heart a rosy flame, 
Because you kiss'd me ere I died. 
Death could but part us for a while ; 
Beyond the boundary of years 
We met again oh, do not smile 
That tender smile, more sad than tears ! 

Forget my vision sweet and vain, 
Your faith is mine your faith is best ; 
Let others count the joys they gain, 
I am a thousand times more blest. 
They can but give a scanty dole 
Out of a life made safe in heaven, 
While I am sovereign o'er the whole, 
I can give all and all is given ! 
Faith such as ours defies the grave, 
Nor needs a dream of bliss above 
Shall not this moment make me brave ? 
O aloe-flower of perfect love ! 



What though the end of all be come, 
The latest hour, the latest breath, 
This is life's triumph, and its sum, 
The aloe-flower of love and death ! 

And yet your kisses wake a life 

That throbs in anguish through my heart, 

Leads up to wage despairing strife, 

And shudders, loathing to depart. 

Can such desire be born in vain, 

Crush'd by inevitable doom ? 

While you let live can Love be slain ? 

Can Love lie dead within my tomb ? 

And when you die that hopeless day 

When darkness comes and utmost need, 

And I am dead and cold, you say, 

Will Death have power to hold his 

prey? 

Shall I not know ? Shall I not heed ? 
When your last sun, with waning light, 
Below the sad horizon dips, 
Shall I not rush from out the night 
To die once more upon your lips ? 

Ah, the black moment comes ! Draw 

nigh, 

Stoop down, O Love, and hold me fast. 
O empty earth ! O empty sky ! 
There is no answer, though I die 
Breathing my soul out in the cry, 
Is it the first kiss or the last ? 



3tafcp Ctirrie 

("VIOLET FANE") 



A MAY SONG 



A LITTLE while my love and I, 
Before the mowing of the hay, 

Twin'd daisy-chains and cowslip-balls, 

And caroll'd glees and madrigals, 
Before the hay, beneath the may, 

My love (who lov'd me then) and I. 

For long years now my love and I 
Tread sever'd paths to varied ends ; 

We sometimes meet, and sometimes say 

The trivial things of every day, 

And meet as comrades, meet as friends, 

My love (who lov'd me once) and I. 

But never more my love and I 

Will waader forth, as once, together, 



Or sing, the songs we us'd to sing 

In spring-time, in the cloudless weather ; 

Some chord is mute that us'd to ring, 
Some word forgot we us'd to say 
Amongst the may, before the hay, 

My love (who loves me not) and I 



A FOREBODING 

I DO not dread an alter'd heart, 
Or that long line of laud or sea 
Should separate my love from me, 
I dread that drifting slow apart 
All unresisted, unrestrain d 
Which comes to some when they hare 

gain'd 
The dear endeavor of their soul. 



296 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



As two light skiffs that sail'd together, 
Through days and nights of tranquil 

weather, 

Adown some inland stream, might be 
Drifted asunder, each from each ; 
When, floating with the tide, they reach 

The hop'd-for end, the promis'd goal, 
The sudden glory of the sea. 



IN GREEN OLD GARDENS 

IN green old gardens, hidden away 

From sight of revel and sound of strife, 
Where the bird may sing out his soul 

ere he dies, 

Nor fears for the night, so he lives his day ; 
Where the high red walls, which are grow 
ing gray 

With their lichen and moss embroi 
deries, 

Seem sadly and sternly to shut out Life, 
Because it is often as sad as they ; 

Where even the bee has time to glide 
(Gathering gayly his honey'd store) 
Right to the heart of the old-world 

flowers, 

China-asters and purple stocks, 
Dahlias and tall red hollyhocks, 

Laburnums raining their golden show 
ers, 

Columbines prim of the folded core, 
And lupins, and larkspurs, and " London 
pride"; 

Where the heron is waiting amongst the 

reeds, 
Grown tame in the silence that reigns 

around, 

Broken only, now and then, 
By shy woodpecker or noisy jay, 
By the far-off watch-dog's muffled bay ; 
But where never the purposeless laugh 
ter of men, 

Or the seething city's murmurous sound 
Will float up under the river-weeds. 

Here may I live what life I please, 
Married and buried out of sight, 
Married to pleasure, and buried to 

pain, 

Hidden away amongst scenes like these, 
Under the fans of the chestnut trees ; 
Living my child-life over again, 



With the further hope of a fuller delight, 
Blithe as the birds and wise as the bees. 

In green old gardens hidden away 

From sight of revel and sound of 

strife, 
Here have I leisure to breathe and 

move, 

And to do my work in a nobler way ; 
To sing my songs, and to say my say ; 

To dream my dreams, and to love my 

love ; 

To hold my faith, and to live my life, 
Making the most of its shadowy day. 



AFTERWARDS 

I KNOW that these poor rags of woman 
hood, 

This oaten pipe, whereon the wild winds 
play'd 

Making sad music, tatter'd and out- 

fray'd, 

Cast off, play'd out, can hold no more of 
good, 

Of love, or song, or sense of sun and 
shade. 

What homely neighbors elbow me (hard by 
'Neath the black yews) I know I shall 

not know, 
Nor take account of changing winds 

that blow, 

Shifting the golden arrow, set on high 
On the gray spire, nor mark who come 
and go. 

Yet would I lie in some familiar place, 
Nor share my rest with uncongenial 

dead, 
Somewhere, maybe, where friendly feet 

will tread, 

As if from out some little chink of space 
Mine eyes might see them tripping over 
head. 

And though too sweet to deck a sepulchre 
Seem twinkling daisy-buds, and meadow 

grass; 
And so, would more than serve me, lest 

they pass 
Who fain would know what woman rested 

there, 
What her demeanor, or her story was, 



LADY CURRIE WADDINGTON ERNEST MYERS 297 



For these I would that on a sculptur'd 

stone 

(Fenced round with ironwork to keep se 
cure) 



Should sleep a form with folded palms 

demure, 

In aspect like the dreamer that was gone, 
With these words carv'd, "Ihop'd, but was 



not sure. 



IDafcDmrtton 



THE INN OF CARE 

AT Nebra, by the Unstrut, 
So travellers declare, 
There stands an ancient tavern, 
It is the " Inn of Care." 
To all the world 't is open ; 
It sets a goodly fare ; 
And every soul is welcome 
That deigns to sojourn there. 

The landlord with his helpers, 
(He is a stalwart host), 
To please his guest still labors 
With " bouilli " and with " roast ; " 
And ho ! he laughs so roundly, 
He laughs, and loves to boast 
That he who bears the beaker 
May live to share the " toast." 

Lucus a non lucendo 

Thus named might seem the inn, 

So careless is its laughter, 

So loud its merry din ; 

Yet ere to doubt its title 

You do, in sooth, begin, 

Go, watch the pallid faces 

Approach and pass within. 



To Nebra, by the Unstrut, 

May all the world repair, 

And meet a hearty welcome, 

And share a goodly fare ; 

The world ! ' t is worn and weary 

T is tir'd of gilt and glare ; 

The inn ! 't is nam'd full wisely, 

It is the " Inn of Care." 

SOUL AND BODY 

WHERE wert thou, Soul, ere yet mybody 

born 
Became thy dwelling-place ? Didst thou 

on earth, 

Or in the clouds, await this body's birth ? 
Or by what chance upon that winter's morn 
Didst thou this body find, a babe forlorn ? 
Didst thou in sorrow enter, or in mirth ? 
Or for a jest, perchance, to try its worth 
Thou tookest flesh, ne'er from it to be torn ? 
Nay, Soul, I will not mock thee ; 'well I 

know 

Thou wert not on the earth, nor in the sky ; 
For with my body's growth thou too didst 

grow ; 

But with that body's death wilt thou too die ? 
I know not, and thou canst not tell me, so 
In doubt we '11 go together, thou and L 



GORDON 

i 

ON through the Libyan sand 

Rolls ever, mile on mile, 

League on long league, cleaving the rain 
less land, 

Fed by no friendly wave, the immemorial 
Nile. 



II 



Down through the cloudless air, 
Undimm'd, from heaven's sheer height, 
Bend their inscrutable gaze, austere and 

bare, 

In long-proceeding pomp, the stars of Lib 
yan night. 



2Q8 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



in 

Beneath the stars, beside the unpaushig 

flood, 

Earth trembles at the wandering lion's roar ; 
Trembles again, when in blind thirst of 

blood 
Sweep the wild tribes along the startled 

shore. 

IV 

They sweep and surge and struggle, and 

are gone : 

The mournful desert silence reigns again, 
The immemorial River rolleth on, 
The order'd stars gaze blank upon the 

plain. 

V 

O awful Presence of the lonely Nile, 

O awful Presence of the starry sky, 

Lo, in this little while 

Unto^the mind's true-seeing inward eye 

There hath arisen there 

Another haunting Presence as sublime, 

As great, as sternly fair ; 

Yea, rather fairer far 

Than stream, or sky, or star, 

To live while star shall burn or river roll, 

Unmarr'd by marring Time, 

The crown of Being, a heroic soul. 

VI 

Beyond the weltering tides of worldly 

change 

He saw the invisible things, 
The eternal Forms of Beauty and of Right ; 
Wherewith well pleas'd his spirit wont to 

range, 

Rapt with divine delight, 
Richer than empires, royaler than kings. 

VII 

Lover of children, lord of fiery fight, 

Saviour of empires, servant of the poor, 

Not in the sordid scales of earth, unsure, 

Deprav'd, adulterate, 

He measur'd small and great, 

But by some righteous balance wrought in 

heaven, 

To his pure hand by Powers empyreal given ; 
Therewith, by men unmov'd, as God he 

judged aright. 



VIII 

As on the broad sweet-water'd river tost 

Falls some poor grain of salt, 

And melts to naught, nor leaves embitter 
ing trace ; 

As in the o'er-arching vault 

With unrepell'd assault 

A cloudy climbing vapor, lightly lost, 

Vanisheth utterly in the starry space ; 

So from our thought, when his enthron'd 
estate 

We inly contemplate, 

All wrangling phantoms fade, and leave us 
face to face. 



IX 

Dwell in us, sacred spirit, as in thee 

Dwelt the eternal Love, the eternal Life, 

Nor dwelt in only thee ; not thee alone 

We honor reverently, 

But in thee all who in some succoring 
strife, 

By day or dark, world-witness'd or un 
known, 

Crush'd by the crowd, or in late harvest 
hail'd, 

Warring thy war have triumph'd, or have 
faiPd. 



Nay, but not only there 

Broods thy great Presence, o'er the Libyan 

plain. 

It haunts a kindlier clime, a dearer air, 
The liberal air of England, thy lov'd home. 
Thou through her sunlit clouds and flying 

rain 
Breathe, and all winds that sweep her island 

shore 

Rough fields of riven foam, 
Where in stern watch her guardian break 
ers roar. 

Ay, thron'd with all her mighty memories,] 
Wherefrom her nobler sons their nurture 

draw, 

With all of good or great 
For aye incorporate 
That rears her race to faith and generous 

shame, 

To high-aspiring awe, 
To hate implacable of thick-thronging lies, 
To scorn of gold and gauds and clamorous 

fame ; 



ERNEST MYERS SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG 



299 



r itl> all we guard most dear and most 

divine, 

ill records rank'd with thine, 
Here be thy home, brave soul, thy undecay- 
ing shrine. 

ETSI OMNES, EGO NON 

HERE where under earth his head 
Finds a last and lonely bed, 
Let him speak upon the stone : 
Etsi omnes, ego non. 

Here he shall not know the eyes 
Bent upon their sordid prize 
Earthward ever, nor the beat 
Of the hurrying faithless feet. 

None to make him perfect cheer 
Join'd him on his journey drear ; 
Some too soon, who fell away ; 
Some too late, who mourn to-day. 

Yet while comrades one by one 
Made denial and were gone, 
Not the less he labor'd on : 
Elsi omnes, ego non. 

Surely his were heart and mind 
Meet for converse with his kind, 
Light of genial fancy free, 
Grace of sweetest sympathy. 

But his soul had other scope, 
Holden of a larger hope, 



Larger hope and larger love. 
Meat to eat men knew not of : 

Knew not, know not yet shall sound 
From this place of Loly ground 
Even this legend thereupon, 
Etsi omnea, ego non. 



"THE SEA-MAIDS' MUSIC 

ONE moment the boy, as he wander'd by 

night 
Where the far-spreading foam in the moon- 

beam was white, 
One moment he caught on the breath of 

the breeze 
The voice of the sisters that sing in the seas. 

One moment, no more : though the boy 

linger'd long, 
No more might he hear of the raermaidens* 

song, 
But the pine-woods behind him moanM 

low from the land, 
And the ripple gush'd soft at his feet on 

the sand. 

Yet or ever they ceas'd, the strange sound 

of their joy 
Had lighted a light in the breast of the 

boy : 

And the seeds of a wonder, a splendor to be 
Had been breath'd through hia soul from 

the songs of the sea. 



AUTUMN MEMORIES 

WHEN russet beech-leaves drift in air, 

And withering bracken gilds the ling, 
And red haws brighten hedgerows bare, 

And only plaintive robins sing ; 
When autumn whirlwinds curl the sea, 

And mountain-tops are cold with haze, 
Then saddest thoughts revisit me, 

I sit and dream of the olden days. 

When chestnut-leaves lie yellow on ground, 
And brown nuts break the prickled husk, 

And nests on naked boughs are found, 
And swallows shrill no more at dusk, 



And folks are glad in house to be, 
And up the flue the faggots blaze, 

Then climb my little boys my knee 
To hear me tell of the olden day* 

THE MYSTERY 

YEAR after year 

The leaf and the shoot ; 
The babe and the nestling, 

The worm at the root ; 
The bride at the altar, 

The corpse on the bier 
The Earth and its story, 

Year after year, 



300 



COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL 



Whither are tending, 

And whence do they rise, 
The cycles of changes, 

The worlds in their skies, 
The seasons that roll'd 

Ere I flash'd from the gloom, 
And will roll on as now 

When I 'm dust in the tomb ? 



ONE IN THE INFINITE 

ROLL on, and with thy rolling crnst 

That round thy poles thou twirlest, 
Roll with thee, Earth, this grain of dust, 

As through the Vast thou whirlest ; 
On, on through zones of dark and light 

Still waft me, blind and reeling, 
Around the sun, and with his flight 

In wilder orbits wheeling. 

Speed on through deeps without a shore, 

This Atom with thee bearing, 
' Thyself a grain of dust no more 

'Mid fume of systems flaring. 
Ah, what am I to thirst for power, 

Or pore on Nature's pages, 
Whirl' d onward, living for an hour, 

And dead through endless ages ? 



MY GUIDE 

SHE leads me on through storm and calm, 

My glorious Angel girt with light ; 
By dazzling isles of tropic balm, 

By coasts of ice in northern night. 
Now far amid the mountain shades 

Her footprints gleam like golden fire, 
And now adown the leafy glades 

I chase the music of her lyre. 

And now amid the tangled pines 

That darkly robe the gorgeous steep 

She beckons where in woven lines 

The sunbeams through the darkness 
creep, 

And shows in glimpses far below 
The champaign stretching leagues away, 



Fair cities veil'd in summer's glow 
Or sparkling in the cloudless ray. 

At times on seas with tempest loud, 

The pilot of my bark, she stands, 
And, through the rifts of driving cloud, 

To tranquil bays of bounteous lands, 
The grassy creek, the bowery shore, 

The fringe of many a charmed realm. 
She steers me safe by magic lore, 

Her white arm leaning on the helm. 

When, sick at heart and worn, mine eyes 

I bend to earth in long despair, 
She lifts her finger to the skies, 

The violet deeps of lucid air, 
The myriad myriad orbs that roll 

In endless throngs in living space, 
And all the vision of her soul 

Is mirror 'd in her radiant face. 



"THE FATHER" 

IF it were only a dream, 

Were it not good to cherish, 
Seeing to lose its beam 

Is in despair to perish 
Maker and Father and Friend, 

Yearning in pity to guide me, 
Leading me on to the end, 

Ever in love beside me, 
Never in storm or gloom 

Deaf to a cry of sorrow, 
Kindling beyond the tomb 

Light of an endless morrow ? 

Yea, if 't were only a dream, 

Better it were to clasp it, 
Brood on it until it seem 

Real as the lives that grasp it. 
Helpless, feeble, and lost, 

Groping in Wisdom's traces, 
Whirl 'd like a leaf, and tost 

Out in the awful spaces, 
Oh, how the heart betray'd 

Bounds, into life upleaping, 
Trusting that He who made 

Watch over all is keeping ! 



WOODS MRS. CRAWFORD 



THE SOUL STITHY 

[Y soul, asleep between its body-throes, 
[id leagues of darkness watch'd a furnace 

glare, 

breastless arms that wrought labori 
ous there, 
Power without plan, wherefrom no purpose 

grows, 

Welding white metal on a forge with blows, 
Whence stream'd the singing sparks like 

flaming hair, 
Which whirling gusts ever abroad would 

bear : 

And still the stithy hammers fell and rose. 
And then I knew those sparks were souls 

of men, 
And watch'd them driven like starlets down 

the wind. 

A myriad died and left no trace to tell ; 
An hour like will-o'-the-wisps some lit the 

fen; 

Now one would leave a trail of fire behind : 
And still the stithy-hammers rose and fell. 



THE WORLD'S DEATH-NIGHT 

I THINK a stormless night-time shall ensue 
Unto the world, yearning for hours of 

calm: 
Not these the end, nor sudden-closing 

palm 
Of a God's hand beneath the skies we 

knew, 

Nor fall from a fierce heaven of fiery dew 
In place of the sweet dewfall, the world's 

balm, 

Nor swell of elemental triumph-psalm 
Round the long-buffeted bulk, rent through 

and through. 

But in the even of its endless night, 
With shoreless floods of moonlight on its 

breast, 

And baths of healing mist about its scars, 
An instant sums its circling years of flight, 
And the tir'd earth hangs crystall'd into 

rest, 
Girdled with gracious watchings of the 

stars. 



BALLADISTS AND LYRISTS 



ouia 



KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN 

KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN ! the gray dawn 

is breaking, 

The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill ; 
The lark from her light wing the bright 

dew is shaking, 

Kathleen Mavourneen ! what, slumber 
ing still ? 
Oh, hast thou forgotten how soon we must 

sever ? 
Oh ! hast thou forgotten this day we must 

part? 

It may be for years, and it may be forever ! 
Oh, why art thou silent, thou voice of 

my heart ? 

Oh ! why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavour 
neen ? 



CratoforD 



Kathleen Mavourneen, awake from thy 

slumbers ! 
The blue mountains glow in the sun's 

golden light ; 
Ah, where is the spell that once hung on 

my numbers ? 
Arise in thy beauty, thou star of my 

night ! 
Mavourneen, Mavourneen, my sad tears 

are falling, 
To think that from Erin and thee I 

must part t 

It may be for years, and it may be for 
ever ! 
Then why art thou silent, thou voice of 

my heart ? 

Then why art thou silent, Kathleen Mar 
vourneen ? 



3 02 



BALLADISTS AND LYRISTS 



THE OLD CAVALIER 

" FOR our martyr'd Charles I pawn'd my 
plate, 

For his son I spent my all, 
That a churl might dine, and drink my wine, 

And preach in my father's hall : 
That father died on Marston Moor, 

My son on Worcester plain ; 
But the king he turn'd his back on me 

When he got his own again. 

" The other day, there came, God wot ! 

A solemn, pompous ass, 
Who begged to know if I did not go 

To the sacrifice of Mass : 
I told him fairly to his face, 

That in the field of fight 
I had shouted loud for Church and King, 

When he would have run outright. 

" He talk'd of the Man of Babylon 

With his rosaries and copes, 
As if a Roundhead was n't worse 

Than half a hundred Popes. 
I don't know what the people mean, 

With their horror and affright ; 
All Papists that I ever knew 

Fought stoutly for the right. 

" I now am poor and lonely, 

This cloak is worn and old, 
But yet it warms my loyal heart, 

Through sleet, and rain, and cold, 
When I call to mind the Cavaliers, 

Bold Rupert at their head, 
Bursting through blood and fire, with cries 

That might have wak'd the dead. 

'* Then spur and sword was the battle word, 

And we made their helmets ring, 
Howling like madmen, all the while, 

For God and for the King. 
And though they snuffled psalms, to give 

The Rebel-dogs their due, 
When the roaring shot pour'd close and hot 

They were stalwart men and true. 

" On the fatal field of Naseby, 

Where Rupert lost the day 
By hanging on the flying crowd 

Like a lion on his prey, 



I stood and fought it out, until, 

In spite of plate and steel, 
The blood that left my veins that day 

Flow'd up above my heel. 

" And certainly, it made those quail 

Who never quail'd before, 
To look upon the awful front 

Which Cromwell's horsemen wore. 
I felt that every hope was gone, 

When I saw their squadrons form, 
And gather for the final charge 

Like the coming of the storm. 

" Oh ! where was Rupert in that hour 

Of danger, toil, and strife ? 
It would have been to all brave men 

Worth a hundred years of life 
To have seen that black and gloomy force, 

As it poured down in line, 
Met midway by the Royal horse 

And Rupert of the Rhine. 

" All this is over now, and I 

Must travel to the tomb, 
Though the king I serv'd has got his own, 

In poverty and gloom. 
Well, well, I serv'd him for himself, 

So I must not now complain, 
But I often wish that I had died 

With my son on Worcester plain." 



THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS 

LAST night, among his fellow roughs, 

He jested, quaff'd, and swore : 
A drunken private of the Buffs, 

Who never look'd before. 
To-day, beneath the foeman's frown, 

He stands in Elgin's place, 
Ambassador from Britain's crown, 

And type of all her race. 

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaughtj 

Bewilder'd, and alone, 
A heart, with English instinct fraught, 

He yet can call his own. 
Ay, tear his body limb from limb, 

Bring cord, or axe, or flame : 
He only knows, that not through him 

Shall England come to shame. 



DOYLE THACKERAY 



303 



Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemM, 

Like dreams, to come and go ; 
Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleam'd, 

One sheet of living snow ; 
The smoke, above his father's door, 

In gray soft eddyings hung : 
Must lie then watch it rise no more, 

Doom'd by himself, so young ? 

Yes, honor calls ! with strength like steel 

He put the vision by. 
Let dusky Indians whine and kneel ; 

An English lad must die. 



And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, 

With knee to man unbent, 
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink, 

To his red grave he went. 

Vain, mightiest fleets, of iron fram'd ; 

Vain, those all-shattering guns ; 
Unless proud England keep, untam'd, 

The strong heart of her sons. 
So, let his name through Europe ring 

A man of mean estate, 
Who died, as firm as Sparta's king, 

Because his soul was great. 



AT THE CHURCH GATE 

ALTHOUGH I enter not, 
Yet round about the spot 

Ofttimes I hover ; 
And near the sacred gate, 
With longing eyes I wait, 

Expectant of her. 

The minster bell tolls out 
Above the city's rout, 

And noise and humming ; 
They 've hush'd the minster bell : 
The organ 'gins to swell ; 

She 's coming, she 's coming ! 

My lady comes at last, 
Timid and stepping fast 

And hastening thither, 
With modest eyes downcast ; 
She comes she 's here, she 's past ! 

May heaven go with her ! 

Kneel undisturb'd, fair saint I 
Pour out your praise or plaint 

Meekly and duly ; 
I will not enter there, 
To sully your pure prayer 

With thoughts unruly. 

But suffer me to pace 
Round the forbidden place, 

Lingering a minute, 
Like outcast spirits, who wait, 
And see, through heaven's gate, 

Angels within it. 



THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE 

A STREET there is in Paris famous, 

For which no rhyme our language yields, 
Rue Neuve des pet its Champs its name 
is 

The New Street of the Little Fields ; 
And there's an inn, not rich and splen 
did, 

But still in comfortable case 
The which in youth I oft attended, 

To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. 

This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is 

A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, 
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, 

That Greenwich never could outdo ; 
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffern, 

Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace ; 
All these you eat at Terre"s tavern, 

In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. 

Indeed, a rich and savory stew 't is ; 

And true philosophers, methinks, 
Who love all sorts of natural beauties, 

Should love good victuals and good 

drinks. 
And Cordelier or Benedictine 

Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, 
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, 

Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. 

I wonder if the house still there is ? 

Yes, here the lamp is as before ; 
The smiling, red-cheeked e'caillere IB 

Still opening oysters at the door. 



34 



BALLADISTS AND LYRISTS 



Is Terrd still alive and able ? 

I recollect his droll grimace ; 
He 'd come and smile before your table, 

And hop'd you lik'd your Bouillabaisse. 

We enter ; nothing 's changed or older. 

" How 's Monsieur Terrd, waiter, pray ? " 
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder; 

" Monsieur is dead this many a day. " 
Cl It is the lot of saint and sinner. 

So honest Terre* 's run his race ! " 
* What will Monsieur require for dinner ? " 

" Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ? " 

" Oh, oui, Monsieur, " 's the waiter's an 
swer ; 

" Quel vin Monsieur ddsire-t-il ? " 
" Tell me a good one." " That I can, sir ; 

The Chambertin with yellow seal. " 
" So Terrd 's gone, " I say and sink in 

My old accustom'd corner-place ; 
" He 's done with feasting and with drink 
ing, 

With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse. " 

My old accustom'd corner here is 

The table still is in the nook ; 
Ah ! vanish'd many a busy year is, 

This well-known chair since last I took. 
When first I saw ye, Cari luoghi, 

I 'd scarce a beard upon my face, 
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, 

I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. 

Where are you, old companions trusty 

Of early days, here met to dine ? 
Come, waiter ! quick, a flagon crusty 

I '11 pledge them in the good old wine. 
The kind old voices and old faces 

My memory can quick retrace ; 
Around the board they take their places, 

And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. 

There 's Jack has made a wondrous mar 
riage ; 

There 's laughing Tom is laughing yet ; 
There 's brave Augustus drives his carriage ; 

There 's poor old Fred in the Gazette ; 
On James's head the grass is growing : 

Good Lord ! the world has wagg'd apace 
Since here we set the Claret flowing, 

And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. 

Ah me ! how quick the days are flitting ! 
I mind me of a time that 's gone, 



When here I 'd sit, as now I 'm sitting, 
In this same place but not alone. 

A fair young form was nestled near me, 
A dear, dear face look'd fondly up, 

And sweetly spoke and smil'd to cheer me. 
There 's no one now to share my cup. 



I drink it as the Fates ordain it. 

Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes j 
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it 

In memory of dear old times. 
Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is ; 

And sit you down and say your grace 
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. 

Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse ! 

THE AGE OF WISDOM 

Ho ! pretty page, with the dimpled chin, 
That never has known the barber's shear, 

All your wish is woman to win ; 

This is the way that boys begin : 
Wait till you come to forty year. 

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains ; 

Billing and cooing is all your cheer 
Sighing, and singing of midnight strains, 
Under Bonnybell's window panes : 

Wait till you come to forty year. 

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass ; 

Grizzling hair the brain doth clear ; 
Then you know a boy is an ass, 
Then you know the worth of a lass, 

Once you have come to forty year. 

Pledge me round ; I bid ye declare, 

All good fellows whose beards are gray. 
Did not the fairest of the fair 
Common grow and wearisome ere 
Ever a month was pass'd away ? 

The reddest lips that ever have kiss'd, 

The brightest eyes that ever have shone, 
May pray and whisper and we not list, 
Or look away and never be miss'd, 
Ere yet ever a mouth is gone. 

Gillian 's dead ! God rest her bier 
How I loved her twenty years syne ! 

Marian 's married ; but I sit here, 

Alone and merry at forty year, 

Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 



305 



SORROWS OF WERTHER 

WERTHER had a love for Charlotte 
Such as words could never utter ; 

Would you know how first he met her ? 
She was cutting bread and butter. 

Charlotte was a married lady, 
And a moral man was Werther, 

And for all the wealth of Indies 
Would do nothing for to hurt her. 

So he sigh'd and pin'd and ogled, 
And his passion boil'd and bubbled, 

Till he blew his silly brains out, 
And no more was by it troubled. 

Charlotte, having seen his body 
Borne before her on a shutter, 

Like a well-conducted person, 

Went on cutting bread and butter. 



THE PEN AND THE ALBUM 

I AM Miss Catherine's book " (the Al 
bum speaks) ; 

" I Ve lain among your tomes these many 
weeks ; 

I'm tir'd of your old coats and yellow 
cheeks. 

" Quick, Pen ! and write a line with a good 

grace ; 

Come ! draw me off a funny little face ; 
Ami. prithee, send me back to Chesham 

Place." 

PEN 

I am my master's faithful old Gold Pen ; 
I Ve serv'd him three long years, and drawn 

since then 
Thousands of funny women and droll men. 

O Album ! could I tell you all his ways 
And thoughts, since I am his, these thou 
sand days, 
Lord, how your pretty pages I 'd amaze ! 

ALBUM 

His ways ? his thoughts ? Just whisper 

me a few ; 

Tell me a curious anecdote or two, 
And write 'em quickly off, good Mordan, do ! 



PEN 

Since he my faithful service did engage 
To follow him through his queer pilgrimage, 
I ' ve drawn and written many a line and page. 

Caricatures I scribbled have, and rhymes, 
And dinner cards, and picture pantomimes, 
And merry little children's books at times. 

I 've writ the foolish fancy of his brain ; 
The aimless jest that, striking, hath caus'd 

r'n; 
vord that he 'd wish back again. 

Iv'e help'd him to pen many a line for 

bread ; 

To joke, with sorrow aching" in his head ; 
Andj make your laughter when his own 

heart bled. 

I 've spoke with men of all degree and 

sort 

Peers of the land, and ladies of the Court ; 
O, but I 've chouicled a deal of sport. 

Feasts that were ate a thousand days ago, 
Biddings to wine that long hath ceas'd to 

flow, 
Gay meetings with good fellows long laid 

low ; 

Summons to bridal, banquet, burial, ball, 
Tradesman's polite reminders of his small 
Account due Christmas last I 've an- 
swer'd all. 

Poor Diddler's tenth petition for a half 
Guinea ; Miss Bunyan's for an autograph ; 
So I refuse, accept, lament, or laugh, 

Condole, congratulate, invite, praise, scoff, 
Day after day still dipping in my trough, 
And scribbling pages after pages off. 

Day after day the labor 's to be done, 
And sure as comes the postman and the sun, 
The indefatigable ink must run. 



Go back, my pretty little gilded tome, 
To a fair mistress and a pleasant home, 
Where soft hearts greet us whensoe'er WQ 
come. 



BALLADISTS AND LYRISTS 



Dear, friendly eyes, with constant kindness 

lit, 

However rude my verse, or poor my wit, 
Or sad or gay my mood, you welcome it. 

Kind lady ! till my last of lines is penn'd, 
My master's love, grief, laughter, at an end, 
Whene'er I write your name, may I write 
friend ! 

Not all are so that were so in past years ; 
Voices, familiar once, no more he hears ; 
Names, often writ, are blotted out in tears. 

So be it : joys will end and tears will 

dry 
Album ! my master bids me wish good- 

by; 
He '11 send you to your mistress presently. 

And thus with thankful heart he closes 

you ; 
Blessing the happy hour when a friend he 

knew 
So gentle, and so generous, and so true. 

Nor pass the words as idle phrases by; 

Stranger ! I never writ a flattery, 

Nor sign'd the page that register 'd a lie. 



THE MAHOGANY TREE 

CHRISTMAS is here ; 
Winds whistle shrill, 
Icy and chill, 
Little care we ; 
Little we fear 
Weather without, 
Shelter'd about 
The Mahogany Tree. 

Once on the boughs 
Birds of rare plume 
Sang, in its bloom ; 
Night birds are we ; 
Here we carouse, 
Singing, like them, 
Perch'd round the stem 
Of the jolly old tree. 

Here let us sport, 
Boys, as we sit 
Laughter and wit 
Flashing so free. 



Life is but short 
When we are gone, 
Let them sing on, 
Round the old tree. 

Evenings we knew, 
Happy as this ; 
Faces we miss, 
Pleasant to see. 
Kind hearts and true, 
Gentle and just, 
Peace to your dust ! 
We sing round the tree. 

Care, like a dun, 
Lurks at the gate : 
Let the dog wait ; 
Happy we '11 be ! 
Drink every one ; 
Pile up the coals, 
Fill the red bowls, 
Round the old tree. 

Drain we the cup. 
Friend, art afraid ? 
Spirits are laid 
In the Red Sea. 
Mantle it up ; 
Empty it yet ; 
Let us forget, 
Round the old tree. 

Sorrows, begone ! 
Life and its ills, 
Duns and their bills, 
Bid we to flee. 
Come with the dawn, 
Blue-devil sprite, 
Leave us to-night, 
Round the old tree. 



THE END OF THE PLAY 

THE play is done the curtain drops, 

Slow falling to the prompter's bell ; 
A moment yet the actor stops, 

And looks around, to say farewell. 
It is an irksome word and task ; 

And, when he 's laugh'd and said his sa;y v 
He shows, as he removes the mask, 

A face that 's anything but gay. 

One word, ere yet the evening ends : 
Let 's close it with a parting rhyme, 



THACKERAY DICKENS 



307 



pledge a hand to all young friends, 
3 fits the merry Christmas time ; 
hi life's wide scene you, too, have parts, 
That fate ere long shall bid you play ; 
1-niglit ! with honest gentle hearts 
kindly greeting go alway ! 

Good-night ! I 'd say the griefs, the joys, 

Just hinted in this mimic page, 
The triumphs and defeats of boys, 

Are but repeated in our age ; 
I 'd say your woes were not less keen, 

Your hopes more vain, than those of 

men, 
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen 

At forty-five played o'er again. 

I 'd say we suffer and we strive 

Not less nor more as men than boys, 
With grizzled beards at forty-five, 

As erst at twelve in corduroys, 
And if, in time of sacred youth, 

We learn'd at home to love and pray, 
Pray heaven that early love and truth 

May never wholly pass away. 

And in the world, as in the school, 

I 'd say how fate may change and shift, 
The prize be sometimes with the fool, 

The race not always to the swift ; 
The strong may yield, the good may fall, 

The great man be a vulgar clown, 
The knave be lifted over all, 

The kind